


your city sings goodnight

by culaccino (urban_orpheus)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-03 09:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11529651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urban_orpheus/pseuds/culaccino
Summary: Enjolras swallows, as the train slows. ‘I am sorry,’ he says. ‘For ruining your date.’Grantaire snorts, and then shivers. A group of teenagers gets on, and one girl leers openly at him, her skirt hitched up. He looks away. ‘Adrien wasn’t my date.’‘Whatever he was.’‘He wasn’t anything.’ Forgive me, he thinks. Adrien’s sweet, but he’s not this; he’s not Enjolras slumped on the metro, body shaking with the train, hair damp with sweat. Even when he’s a wreck, Grantaire wants to touch him.-A love story told through art, bullets, and jealousy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I should warn you that this is very long- upwards of 100,000 words. I've been working on it for a while. Bear in mind that slow = glacial. Hope you enjoy the ride!

* * *

**_part i: spring_ **

_There is rarely any joy in a frictionless place._

* * *

 

 

**chapter one, or mile to mile**

 

‘Okay,’ says Grantaire. ‘Maybe it’s time to move.’

His door creaks a little, which it really can’t be faulted for, as it is hanging halfway off its hinges. The floor glitters with what is, probably, broken glass. His favourite shitty couch, bought with Eponine from a suspicious Craigslist seller of indeterminate Eastern-European origin, is gutted. The stuffing spills out luridly like someone’s internal organs; the covering savagely ripped with long, uneven knife strokes. It was in pretty bad shape before (thank you, Bahorel, and your impromptu wrestling matches) but now its goose is well and truly cooked.

‘Uh,’ says Frederick, the crack dealer who lives next door. ‘This may or may not be my fault.’

They stand there, the two of them, in mutual silence and reflection. Grantaire is half-tempted to go check on his canvases, but if the television and ugly antique vase were left untouched, it’s unlikely his paintings were taken. Unless he’s been robbed by a thief with a fondness for self-portraits.

‘Did you forget to pay the suppliers again?’ Grantaire asks conversationally. There had been an incident last year, involving several gunshots and a trip to the emergency hospital. Now Frederick walks with a limp, and Mme Buendias keeps an illegal revolver in her bedside table.

Frederick licks his tiny, thin mouth and twitches. He’s probably high, right now, chemicals surging through his bloodstream to continue the slow process of poison. Grantaire never understands why people try to kill Frederick; he’s been committing suicide for years. ‘Yeah, uh. They were new guys. Maghrebi, I think? Anyway. They got the address wrong.’

‘Well,’ says Grantaire. ‘That’s good.’ He makes a pointed gesture at his violated door, and his wrecked, cheerfully deadened home. ‘ _For you_.’

‘Sorry man.’ Frederick scratches his mop of brittle blond hair. His nails are discolored. ‘I can like, pay damages?’

‘Shouldn’t you be paying the guys who fucking ripped my place to shreds?’ Grantaire asks. In truth, he doesn’t want Fred’s money; it’s likely tainted, and will get him into more trouble than a few new plates are worth.

‘Yeah.’ Frederick nods, repeatedly, like a maniacal bobblehead. ‘Yeah I should maybe do that.’ He casts a surprisingly discerning eye, for a crack addict, over the apartment, and sheepishly backs away. ‘Gotta go, man, I’m really-‘

‘-don’t worry about it,’ Grantaire says tiredly, and waves him away. Fred scampers to his own apartment and fumbles with the door.

Grantaire crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. Dawn filters pleasantly into the room and illuminates the mess; the shattered glasses and torn wallpaper, cupboard doors hanging at odd angles. With all that pinkish, delicate light, he has an urge to capture it. Paint it, maybe. It could be ironic. _Landscape, Safe Haven._ He notices, with his first real pang of sorrow, that his books haven’t managed to escape.

Stepping in to catalogue the total damage, Grantaire winces as his heavy, dirty boot treads right on an old copy of Proulx’s _Shipping News_. No background music indeed; he could use a little poignancy right now. The cover falls away in his hands, a mess of green and red. It makes the corner of his mouth pull up. All his art theory books are ripped, too (farewell, Heinrich Wolfflin, you’ll be remembered little and mourned even less) and even Game of Thrones is sprawled on the floor, pages scattered haphazardly across the room. It’s as if somebody’s detonated a Booker prize bomb.

His bedroom seems to be in the same state- his mattress is laid forlornly across the bedframe, and his duvet has, alas, departed this world in brightly colored shreds. Very Rauschenberg. He approves.

When Grantaire opens the wardrobe- long abandoned as an actual wardrobe, and now functioning as a storage device for his canvases- he’s pleased to note his work actually has been left alone. Perhaps they’d realised they’d gotten the wrong man when they came across the painting of an abstract pigeon pecking around Luxembourg, or they’d just gotten bored. He likes to imagine a couple of big, tough tattooed brutes, slowly backing out of his flat and realising they’d made a huge mistake. Lots of fumbling, and shameful phone calls to their mafia boss. What did Fred say? Maghrebi?

Grantaire ruminates on the deadliness of the Maghrebi while he flips through his sketchbooks, hidden cleverly in the gap between wardrobe and floorboard. It’s an indulgence- a couple of hired muscles wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of ripping out a few torso studies, surely- but he’s a nervous, sad artist and therefore exercises his rights to indulgences. In between his reverent turns of the pages, he has a chance to appraise the work freshly.

They’re not bad, some of them.

The ones of Enjolras are especially considered. If he were to make a very impartial judgement, free of any and all bias whatsoever, he would say that they are probably amongst his best sketches. Grantaire stares at one he remembers doing after a couple of shots at an Amis meeting last year, in summer; the lines of Enjolras’ neck are bold and gleaming and- and well, _erotic-_ paired with the indistinct curl of his hair. Together, he makes as good a Raphaelite as ever. Apollo, brought down crossly from Olympus to strum his lyre and dispense anarchist wisdom to the masses.

Well, it’s not a very good metaphor, but he was eighteen and in love, and so can boast of nostalgia if not any actual wit. And besides, the nickname makes Enjolras cranky, and occasionally prompts Jehan to stand up and dreamily sing a few lines from the _Apollo et Hyacinthus_ E-major aria, which only serves to drive Enjolras from irritated to incandescent with rage. Grantaire looks at the sketch again- at the slight edge of a smile that could be observed, perhaps, from certain angles- and touches Enjolras’ temple, which he will berate himself for later. Then he carefully closes the sketchbook.

It is, of course, supremely lucky that he was with Jehan last night, listening to some truly terrible slam poetry, and had too much to drink. Despite this failed attempt at sobriety, he can safely say that, for once, being drunk was actually good for him. Lucky too, that he’s learned from prior experience and kept all his truly valuable stuff- the laptop, his phone, his wallet- with him. And of course, it’s lucky that Fred’s suppliers only wanted to send a message as opposed to slitting his throat the moment he walked in the door.

If Eponine were here, she would cuff him about the head. He can hear her voice now. _What the hell do you think you’re doing, living next to a dealer in Clichy-sous-Bois? Do you want to end up in a ditch?_ Theoretical Eponine has a point.

Back when Grantaire was a Sorbonne dropout and on the right end of twenty-one, nobody would have questioned his terrible choice of habitat. Nine miles isn’t _that_ far from central Paris, and he fit right in with the youth unemployment rate. After all, he was broke, depressed, drunk and a nuisance. People probably would have liked it if he were shanked. Enjolras would have celebrated. Party hats, or something. Bohemia is always charming when you’ve no other option, and a gloriously thick and pretty head of hair.

Alas, while his hair is just as wild as ever, Grantaire’s twenty-third birthday has just skipped past. Commuting into Paris everyday is getting tiresome, with the whole journey taking him at least an hour, and several near death experiences every evening. The nearest station is in _Le Raincy._ And Grantaire makes commissions now; at first it was hairdressers in the 18 th wanting something to jazz up the back wall, then a couple of requests for portraits and now he’s been contracted by an aged care home to design a mural that hopefully distracts from the whole imminent death thing. Some offers have been surprisingly lucrative, and he’s got an appointment with an old _madame_ next week who wants a pose done. It’s not much but it pays relatively well. Paired with his managing job at Fantine’s bookstore in the 1 st and his usual spare lifestyle, Grantaire could probably afford to move into central Paris.

Getting further west, further into the city he _loves_ \- it’s every artist’s dream to live like that. Grantaire doesn’t know why it’s so hard for him to think about it.

Maybe it’s that, ever since he ran away from Lyons and snatched a job at a fast food place when he was seventeen, this has been it. He’s lost his virginity here, he’s gotten blind drunk for the first time, he’s painted his first piece. Enjolras has stood in the doorway and raised his eyebrow, and made Grantaire love him even harder. For the past eight years, this horrible, rundown, spider-infested hovel has been his home. 

But the walls are torn, and he can hear Mme Buendias cursing at her _telenovelas_ downstairs. His friends have all grown up and graduated, and left the tender ideals of youth behind. Maybe it’s time for him to grow up, too. He’s not a child any longer.

* * *

Monday nights are the Amis’ ‘proper meeting’ times. This means, of course, Enjolras brings his Powerpoints and color-coded palm cards, and everybody arranges the Musain’s chairs in a weird circle in the corner and has Very Serious Discussions. Everyone except for Grantaire, that is, who occupies his usual spot at the back, and either sketches or pretends not to listen. 

Les Amis is not a registered political party; it is not, in fact, a registered anything. Despite Enjolras’ aspirations, it remains more of a university club for adults, joining in on protests and sometimes organising them, supporting numerous worthy causes. Perhaps it will grow one day, but for now it’s small and quiet, bolstered by its connections to other, bigger organisations.

For that reason, they still meet where they did as students. The Musain has always been theirs, in the way that everyone regards their favourite place to be a possession. It lies pleasantly in the 14th, a street or so away from Montparnasse cemetery, and a few minutes from Enjolras’ apartment, old enough to look like it belongs. The owner had protested their meetings at first, disliking the idea of university lefties overrunning her café. Bless her heart, but Mme Houcheloup had changed her tune once Hollande took office. Suddenly Socialists were _fashionable_. That, and Combeferre had bribed her with homemade eclairs and aged wine.

 He still remembers the first time he found this place. It had been October, nearly nine. The weather was howling; rain poured down viciously to pound the awning. Grantaire, eighteen, had been idly chatting with the bartender (Lilly, nice girl but terribly accented French) when a group of kids about his age had stormed in the door.  It had been too much of a fuss to ignore, even if it did rip Grantaire cruelly away from his Jim Beam.

 ‘It is _absolutely unacceptable_ ,’ a boy fumed. He was dark and tall, and thin in a lanky, teenage way. His voice was refined, a Belgian lilt to the accent. Grantaire was too drunk to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping. ‘To have a professor-‘

 ‘We’ll get it sorted,’ and it was another boy. His cheekbones sliced through his skin like glass, and his face was tanned and smooth. Grantaire watched him through the haze of alcohol, unerringly, like a moth drawn to flame. At that point, he’d screwed girls, but only flirted with the idea of men. It would change, soon after.

 There were others- mostly boys but two girls- and they took up the booth directly behind Grantaire. They were warm and alive, wrapped in wool and scarves and indignation. Grantaire closed his eyes and let the words drift over him. Something about a professor making flippant comments on race relations in the _banlieus_. He didn’t particularly care. The world was full of assholes; it was only statistical that some of them found their way into academia.

 It was then, of course, that it happened. The door swung open again, leaving a gust of wind to hit Grantaire full in the face, and Enjolras strode in.

 The thing with Enjolras, of course, is that he is beautiful. Nobody could say otherwise; he’s too perfectly made to deny it. To look at his face in isolation is to observe centuries of theories around beauty be drawn perfectly together in his fine, flawless features. But it’s a cold sort of perfection, motionless and arrogant and hostile. It’s when Enjolras is alive with something- anger, joy, determination- that he becomes something more than a carved-out statue. As if a switch has been hit and everything has been cast into light, you are able to pick out the tiny chip on his front tooth or the slight crooked lilt to his smile, and realise that he’s flesh and blood just as you are. Seeing Enjolras when he is human is more devastating than any of Grantaire’s longing for artistic, aesthetic fulfilment.

 Is it any wonder, then, that Grantaire felt the way he did, at eighteen, sitting in the Musain after quitting fine art classes a week earlier? Is it any wonder that Enjolras, wearing such a ridiculous red coat, his perfect mouth set into righteous fury, made his chest explode?

 His entire body was tense as Enjolras sat at the table of students and unwound his scarf, a humming awareness of proximity. He turned in his chair to watch, a little stunned, ignoring the curious glance of Lilly, and the green-eyed boy sitting closest.

 ‘We have to complain,’ Enjolras said, and of course his voice was like that; resonant, rich and full, Parisian to the end. Those r’s, that hissed snap at the end of the sentence. Balzac would have hated him. Of course he couldn’t be stupid and pretty; he had to be caustic and eloquent. A pulse of lust had shot through Grantaire, then, and he had finished the last of the whiskey. ‘He cannot be allowed to continue poisoning his classrooms with such backwards-‘

 ‘It won’t help,’ Grantaire interrupted helplessly, loudly, through the burn in his oesophagus. The entire group fell silent, and Enjolras flicked his gaze to Grantaire like a knife. His eyes were cornflower blue, but extraordinarily without warmth. His cheeks were a little red, from the cold or indignation, and- Grantaire remembers this- his mouth was chapped.

 ‘Excuse me?’ The words were coldly formed, obviously designed to have him turn away in shame. Grantaire was too drunk, and too infatuated for that. He had leaned forwards. Masochism always comes easily to artists.

 ‘Complaining will get you a hand slap, and the professor nothing. At best your complaint will linger, forever lost in the administration system. At worst the professor will take it personally.’ Had he believed the words he was saying? Not particularly. He had only wanted to see what Enjolras would do, faced with a challenge.

 Enjolras tilted his head, and his hair- gold in the dim lighting- brushed the pale curve of his neck. ‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t take advice from drunk strangers who know nothing about the situation,’ he said curtly. It was- it was haughty, is what it was. Deeply, truly _Enjolrasian_ arrogance. A fault, if one that perfectly suited him.

 Grantaire smiled widely at him, and the group began to titter. ‘I’m Grantaire, I’m only half-drunk, and I don’t need to know the details. There. No longer strangers.’

 The green-eyed boy had laughed. Enjolras had pushed his sleeves up and crossed his arms. From there, the great tradition was formed.

 What followed was years of arguing. Doggedly, Grantaire showed to every single damn meeting of Enjolras’ club. He learned his name (second time) his major (ninth time) and almost helplessly, fell in love. It didn’t matter about the things Enjolras said, the things that made Jehan blanch and Combeferre cough uncomfortably. It was true; he _was_ drunk, useless, insensitive, uncaring. He did start fights, he believed in nothing, he failed at almost everything he tried.

 It was unfortunate, of course, that Grantaire’s depression had peaked in tandem with Enjolras’ Masters year at Pantheon-Assas. There had almost never been a meeting where it didn’t come to blows, and ended with one or both of them storming out of the Musain. Enjolras may appear superhuman, but all the stress and insomnia had gotten to him. Grantaire had taken the brunt of it, although he does remember some episodes with Marius in tears.

 Of course, Enjolras had apologized after passing his CAPA with flying colors, and landing a clerkship at the Paris Court of Appeals. Once he’d been settled in his brilliance, Grantaire supposes, he’d had time to realise how awful he’d been to everyone. It had been a stilted, embarrassed thing, but forgiveness was easy, because Grantaire had never really been angry at him in the first place.

 Their fights have always been one-sided. Grantaire has never managed to find it in himself to fling insults back at Enjolras with the same ferocity. A mocking call of Apollo now and then, maybe some cracks about his ass. But all Grantaire’s arguments are valid, he makes sure of that. He researches, he points things out, he _pushes_.

 Or at least, he did. Now that they’ve graduated and become _functioning members of society_ \- well, all except him and Bahorel- Grantaire can’t summon up that same fire, that blind desire to make Enjolras _look_ at him, just once, to speak to him, even if it’s just harsh, stinging truths. Now he sits and sketches, with his friends, and lives with the ache inside of him as best he can.

 Tonight is no different. The chosen topic is, amusingly, LGBT rights and despite the introduction of same-sex marriage, and the subsequent waning of interest from the silent majority of the country, Enjolras has spun off on another tirade against the French government. Grantaire listens tiredly, and adds a couple of flourished lovehearts to his sketch of Nixon making out with Rousseau.

 ‘…we need to work with L’Association Trans Aide to bring the issue of transphobia to the forefront, despite whatever Vallaud-Belkacem thinks…’

 Hmm. Maybe a French flag lovingly intertwined with the stars and stripes? A little fun, suggestive twist. Grantaire grimaces, and reaches for a non-existent bottle. Beside him, Bahorel points to his glass of water. Fuck him. Fuck Grantaire, too, for involving his friends in his quest for sobriety. He quit AA meetings a year ago, and yet.

 Enjolras signs off with a draft of an online petition against prostitution laws and a scheduled protest (Ile de Cite, really? In front of _Sainte-Chappelle?_ ) and just like that, the atmosphere of hushed concentration dissolves. Musichetta downs a glass of cheap wine in an impressive gulp, and sprawls across her boyfriends, one slim leg resting on the tabletop. Courf immediately begins to annoy Combeferre by attempting to read his palm, who patiently indulges him in the way Courfeyrac is always adored. It’s those dimples; they’re irresistible. Even paired with such dubious predictions as: _you’re totally gonna get pounded by that hot barista_ and _your boss is gonna murder you sometime next week, probably. Expect an ice pick._

 It’s nice, watching his friends abandon the veneer of adulthood. Cosette, sitting pretty on Marius’ knee, leans over Jehan to talk to Eponine, who smiles sincerely and without bitterness. Grantaire smiles, too. He couldn’t have imagined finding a family like this, six years ago. Even when he was at his worst, right before he left for Barcelona, he used to find some small snatches of joy in them. Now, in recovery, they give him a reason to keep going.

 ‘I like it,’ Bahorel pronounces, holding up Grantaire’s sketch and squinting. His nose is charmingly crooked, and the dim lighting is kind to his chromatic, bold tattoos. Feuilly, sitting on the other side of Bahorel, barks out a laugh, and reaches for the picture.

 ‘Surprisingly accurate,’ Combeferre says dryly, one hand clasped in Courfeyrac’s, his glasses askew. Med school hasn’t been good to him, lately, but Grantaire notices a lightening in his eyes. His placement is coming up; Combeferre’s been anticipating it ever since he was seventeen and applying to UPMC.

 ‘Kinda wonder what the porn would be.’ Courf, worryingly, really does look intrigued. Combeferre gently tugs him back to his fortune telling prowess. Unlike the rest of them, he seems to have breezed past his teacher’s degree with good humor and ease. Now he heads up a brood of 16th arrondissement brats in a private school near Luxembourg. Enjolras calls it a sell-out, with only mild friendliness, but Courf claims he’s influencing the 1% one tiny Little Lord Fauntleroy at a time.

 Grantaire plucks his masterpiece away from Feuilly, and sets it down. The air is thick tonight with the vague promise of warmth. It might be crisp now, in mid-March, but he knows that once June hits, the metro will stink and Paris will sweat. Last year it had gotten past forty degrees. Of course, his flat didn’t have air-conditioning. Yet another reason to hurry the moving process along. He doesn’t want the sure burst of enthusiasm of the Amis, though, so he’s told Eponine and nobody else. In hindsight that might have been a mistake, as Eponine lives in a rundown studio with Montparnasse, in fucking Goutte d’Or, and is definitively not a real estate agent.

 He’s about to succumb to Bahorel’s insistence on an arm-wrestle, when Enjolras steps over, having packed up his laptop and notes. He hovers in Grantaire’s peripheral vision, a blur of blond hair and red scarf. And also irritation. ‘Were you paying attention at all?’ His tone is patient rather than sharp, so Grantaire figures it’s not real anger.

 Accordingly, he shrugs, and repeats the petition back to him verbatim, complete with Enjolras’ inflections and Dramatic Pauses. ‘One of your better causes, I think,’ he says, and Jehan flashes him a grin. Eponine whistles in admiration, her dreads shifting on her shoulders.

 Watching Enjolras figure out how to respond to that is priceless. His pretty head ticks over, mouth twitching in reluctance. He settles for a stiff, ‘every one of my _causes_ , as you call them, is as important as the other.’ And then, startlingly, he drops into the empty chair beside Grantaire with a catlike grace. ‘How are you?’

 ‘Uh,’ Grantaire says. He is not equipped for this. Not once in their entire relationship has Enjolras _chatted_. They argue, they mock, they have political and artistic discussions- but Enjolras is not, never was, his friend. Jehan is his friend, Eponine is his friend- hell, _Marius_ is his friend. But not Enjolras. He’s never forgotten that, not once, not even when Enjolras collects him from his flat, or moves the alcohol out of reach. They’re- well. Comrades, if you like. Colleagues.

 ‘Good?’ he ventures, staring at Enjolras as if he’s just announced he’s joining the PCD. ‘Why?’

 ‘Eponine says you’re moving.’ Enjolras’ gaze is unerring and freakishly blue. They’re such lovely eyes, really, when they’re not glaring death at him.

  _Traitor._ ‘…yes?’

 ‘I’ve got a friend who’s looking for a tenant. It’s a studio in the 18th. About 500 euros per month. I could talk to her if you like.’

 Grantaire actually spasms, and then pushes forward in disbelief. ‘Five hundred euros a month? In _Montmartre_? How is that real? Is it infested with bedbugs? Does it have a roof?’

 Enjolras blinks at him. ‘No. It’s roofless. You’re expected to build it yourself, as proof of your worthiness.’ Really, Combeferre has been a horrible influence. Grantaire can hardly imagine pre-Patheon-Assas Enjolras wielding such deadly sarcasm.

 ‘Ha.’ Grantaire looks down, swallows. ‘Really? Are you sure? I mean, I’ve saved up a lot and that’s just in my price range so-‘

 ‘Consider it done.’ Enjolras smiles, which is deeply distressing. Enjolras never smiles at him. And then he reaches out and presses his large, finely boned hand to Grantaire’s shoulder, which almost renders him imploded. ‘It’s good you’re moving. I’d hate to stop researching so thoroughly in preparation for your arguments, after your inevitable drug-related death.’

 Is that a joke? _Mon dieu_. The world is crumbling.

 ‘So thoughtful,’ Grantaire manages, and then Enjolras laughs, like a bell tolling, and walks away.

 Bahorel looks at him. ‘You’re kind of whipped,’ he observes.

 Grantaire stares down at the damn sketch, and feels the burning imprint of Enjolras’ palm, through the thin cotton of his shirt. ‘Fucking tell me about it,’ he says, and bites back a moan.

 

* * *

 

  _Hey, it’s Enjolras. Floreal says you can meet her at the apartment this Thursday? In the morning?_

_yeah i had your number saved i know its u apollo. thurs is good- store doesn’t open till ten. can u get me her number_

_Sure._

* * *

 

Grantaire has found heaven, and it’s a block away from Anvers metro station. Heaven is also around thirty square meters, has water damage on the ceiling and an oven that doesn’t work properly.

 ‘It’s a little old,’ Floreal ventures. She’s very beautiful, in a calm way, and somehow can afford to be thirty-five and owning property in Paris. And somehow, friends with Enjolras? He’s not the type to chum around with landlords, usually. ‘But everything is old in Paris.’

 Grantaire turns to her and shakes his head fervently. ‘I’ve fallen in love,’ he says. It’s true; you can see the back of Sacre Coeur from the bathroom window, and the open plan has captured his heart. Even unfurnished, it’s a gem. A dusty, tiny little gem.

 ‘Oh,’ she says, but it’s a pleased sound. ‘Monsieur Enjolras did say you were eager-‘ _asshole-_ ‘but are you sure you don’t want to think it over?’

 'Madame,’ he says. ‘You could give me thirty years and I would still not change my answer.’ Grantaire had, in fact, spent the entirety of last night filling out all the requisite property farms, digging out tax returns and a copy of his birth certificate and passport.

 Floreal smiles. ‘I would be delighted to rent it to you, Monsieur. Enjolras spoke very highly of you.’

  _He did what_? Grantaire, as Tantalus with his fingers nearly brushing the forbidden fruit, chooses to say nothing and nod confusedly. ‘He was very kind to point me here,’ he says. ‘And the price is amazing, honestly. It’s a dream.’

 Floreal pats his hand, obviously sensing his urge to begin sobbing with joy. ‘Ah, yes, well. There’s the matter of the deposit? It’s two months in advance.’

 ‘God,’ Grantaire says, stunned. ‘I’ve got it?’

 ‘You’ve got it.’ She smiles, teeth white as stars. ‘I’ll send my details to you, and you can sign the lease this weekend? You could probably move in next Monday- I’ll get the contract drawn up. Would Saturday work?’

 ‘Uh,’ Grantaire is delirious with joy, ‘god yes. I’m free anytime.’

 ‘Well,’ she says, and checks her watch. ‘I’ve got somewhere to be, but I look forward to seeing you. I really do hope you enjoy the place.’

 Grantaire floats out of the building in a hazy, ecstatic cloud. There’s a huge dumb grin on his face as he waves goodbye to Floreal, who drives a scooter, of all things. Him. Living in _Montmartre_. No longer beholden to Mme Buendias, with her crazy Spanish mutterings and frequent loud prayers at night. No more Fred, no more drug deals or hookers or-

 God, this is just too good to be true. He praises Enjolras with every step as he takes Anvers to Gare du Nord. The metro is busy today, despite the late morning. There are tourists everywhere, speaking obnoxiously loudly, forgetting to press the button on the train doors. Grantaire, tucked in a window seat, winks at a pretty German girl and watches her blush.

 He gets to _Tourne la Page_ just in time; Fantine’s already opened the doors, and Jehan is working the coffee machine with infinite care.

 ‘You’re late,’ Fantine says mildly, but hands him his nametag and ushers him behind the counter. ‘I want you to train the new recruit today. He’s straight out of a catalogue. You’ll like him.’

 Jehan winks at him. ‘In more ways than one.’

  _Tourne la Page_ is Fantine’s love child. It’s a sprawling store, for Paris, with towering shelves and warm, soft light, located just a crossing away from the Tulieries on rue Cambon. At first it was just a bookshop, but now has expanded to a café, as well. Grantaire has worked here for going on four years, with Jehan joining them last September as their barista, stunning Fantine with his clean espressos and fanciful latte art. He also has a habit of gifting customers a haiku with every coffee, which has ceased to be strange, and is now endearing. Grantaire was promoted to manager last year.

 It’s a good job, for a twenty-three year old artist. Even if he does have to train the new recruits. Sighing, Grantaire pastes a smile on his face, pushes a hand through his hair and turns to greet the new boy.

 He’s a tall one, taller than Grantaire, although that’s not overly hard. And he’s got a mess of red hair, a nice shade; too dark to be distracting. ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I’m Adrien. It’s good to meet you.’ Grantaire’s eyebrows raise; that is a very strong Acadian accent.

‘You’re Canadian?’ he asks, leaning a hip against the closest bookshelf.

Adrien shrugs sheepishly, as if he’s been caught out. ‘Yeah, from Nova Scotia. Thought I’d managed to hide it a bit, but. I guess not.’

Grantaire smiles. ‘Gotta watch your elision, man.’

Adrien’s teeth are very white, and straight, and Grantaire is abruptly aware of how flushed and dishevelled he is. ‘Guess so,’ Adrien says, and scratches the back of his neck self-consciously. Grantaire notices with a start that he’s got a half-sleeve tattoo poking out of the cuff of his shirt. It’s a nice piece from what he can see; black and blue, maybe the edge of a wing? It goes well with Adrien’s pale skin, and Grantaire immediately thinks about getting a sleeve himself. 

Jehan makes a point of asking the next customer very loudly about whether she wants a lemon or blueberry friand. Grantaire is sure he’s going red- which, on him, is about as attractive as someone dying of asphyxiation. ‘We should, um, get you started then.’

The day passes nicely, as Grantaire’s days usually do. It’s strange; he spent the years between fifteen and twenty-one miserable, lost in alcohol and depression. Now it’s like he can finally recognize the sun again, how beautiful the light makes everything look. His therapist took him off anti-depressants months ago; he drinks only sporadically. It’s, well, bad luck to even think it, but most days it feels as if his life is beginning to take shape.

 Adrien works well, and Fantine raises her eyebrow at his disarming Canadian charm. The French customers coo at his accent, while the English-speaking ones are joyful to hear a familiar language. Grantaire, who understands a little English but not enough to consider himself fluent, likes the way the words sound. He’s got three languages under his belt now; French, Spanish and German, and considers picking up a fourth. It’d be good, if he ever felt the need to cross the Channel one day and spend a couple hours in London.

Jehan cleans the countertop as Fantine closes shop. ‘He’s handsome,’ he says, coyly. Grantaire darts a glance at Adrien, currently tackling the cash register. 

‘Stop,’ he says, but without any real fire.

‘You haven’t seen anyone in months.’

‘I so have,’ Grantaire says indignantly. ‘Pigalles, last Friday? Girl with blue hair?’ He goes a little misty-eyed. ‘Three times before breakfast, man. I’m pretty sure she broke me.’

Jehan rolls his eyes. ‘I _mean_ , you haven’t had a stable relationship. One night stands don’t count.’

‘I don’t need a stable relationship. I’m young and gorgeous. And a tortured artist. Having to pick out curtains with some boring accountant will ruin my cred.’ Grantaire grins cheekily and dodges Jehan’s swipe. The man may be an accomplished poet, but numbers are his second love. Plus, he’s dating a sweet little investment banker.

‘I’m just saying,’ Jehan continues, ‘you’ve made such great progress in all areas except…’ he hesitates. ‘You know. _Him_. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire says, the honesty startling him. ‘I do. But I can’t just turn it off. You know I would if I could. It’s not like I _want_ to- to like him.’

Has there ever been a time when everyone didn’t know about Grantaire’s stupid obsession? Maybe it was obvious from the very first night; maybe every word since then has just made it clearer. If that’s the case, Enjolras must know. The thought kills him.

‘It’s been six years. I think you’ve been in two relationships, and Claude was a year and a half ago. Grantaire.’ Jehan places a small hand on his arm, nails painted pink and green. ‘Please try. We all just want to see you happy.’

‘Me included,’ Grantaire says, and exchanges a sad, slow look with Jehan.

Back in university, they’d had a couple of flings; Jehan was- is- a gorgeous tiny enigma of a human being, and Grantaire had been reckless and desperate to feel something. But the occasional Saturday night makeout aside, the lust has faded into a comfortable, intimate relationship. The bond of ex-lovers and best friends, who know each other so well it’s pointless denying anything.

‘I love you,’ Jehan says, and cuffs him about the head. ‘You idiot.’

‘Back at you, Bukowski,’ Grantaire returns, and is rewarded by a shriek of outrage. The day dies without ceremony and the night is a comfort.

It turns out he and Adrien take the same metro line, at least for a few stops. They weave in and out of the waning crowds.

Paris is truly beautiful in spring. Of course, it’s beautiful all the rest of the time, but seeing the Tuileries in their blooming, vibrant best is undeniably special. The sky is hypnotizing, an azure color that makes Grantaire’s hands itch to take out a set of paints and just get it all down. The couple kissing by the lamppost; the kid biting down into an icecream shaped like petals. How could you not feel like living today? How could you touch the buildings and remember the history and not feel like sprinting down the street? Just the sheer joy of it, the knowledge that people around the world save up for years to have this for a few days, and he can have it always.

They take the stairs two at a time as they descend into Tuileries station. ‘Thanks for helping today,’ Adrien says. ‘It’s kinda tough being away from home.’

‘You studying?’ Grantaire asks, as they wait on the platform.

‘Yeah. I’m at ENS. Philosophy.’

‘Shit,’ Grantaire says eloquently. ‘As an international student? _Mon dieu_. You must be crazy smart.’

Adrien blushes, which looks a whole lot better on him than on Grantaire. ‘I’m lucky, I guess. Got a massive scholarship. Wouldn’t have been able to come here otherwise. With all the lodging and flights and food, it would have been upwards of like seventy grand a year.’

Three minutes till the train. Grantaire laughs a little. ‘ _Soixante-dix_ ,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘If you want to pass for Parisian, you need to say it _soixante-dix_. You say it _septante_.’

‘Oh.’ Adrien frowns, and then smiles bashfully. ‘This is gonna drive me crazy.’

Grantaire resists pointing out that he’s used _chavirer_ instead of _devenir_ on that one. ‘You’ll be fine. I’m pretty sure everyone loved you today. You’re like our little Nova Scotian mascot.’

‘Well, as long as I didn’t screw up too badly.’

‘Nah.’ Two minutes. ‘You were great. Trust me, I’ve trained a lot of recruits.’ He hasn’t, but something about Adrien’s obvious nerves makes him want to reassure. ‘I can pick the ones that’ll be fired in two weeks.’

Adrien gives him a warm little look. ‘Thanks. You were great today too. I mean, to me.’

Oh.

This is- well. Not entirely surprising. Grantaire has never been of model standard, like Enjolras or Courf or- really, just pick any one of his friends. When the depression was bad, he’d stopped taking care of himself; didn’t cut or wash his hair, ate badly and gained weight, stopped boxing and dancing. The dates dried up, nobody stared at him on the metro anymore. Enjolras might have been cruel, but he hadn’t had a cent on Grantaire’s own self-talk. Ugly became synonymous with his name. Nothing he had loved before remained of any interest. It was a good day if he managed to get out of bed and put on a clean shirt. Depression; a black hole, sucking up any remnant of care, or love, or feeling. Parasitic.

Spain had helped immensely. He’d taken up tangoing because he could, waited tables, hiked and ran the GR 10, grown a beard. When he returned to Paris, he’d been healthier, happier, and ready to heal.

Now, his mirror is good to him. He likes his hair, the lean cut of his abs, the strength in his short legs. He likes his blue eyes, the flash of his smile, the way he can dance. He’s a good looking dude, actually. The only thing that stopped him from recognising it in the first place was his own warped perspective.

So yeah, he’s not entirely taken aback by Adrien’s unsubtle glances. In fact, it’s kind of flattering.

Grantaire makes sure to stand close, when the train doors slide open, to brush his fingertips along the seam of Adrien’s sleeve. They’re both smiling a little as the carriage leaves the station; Grantaire can see their wavering, content expressions in the window.

 

* * *

 

_How was Floreal? Did you like the apartment?_

_it was amazing srsly i cant thank u enough enjolras_

_So you’re signing a lease?_

_yeah this sat. moving in on monday_

_That’s wonderful. I’m glad I could help._

* * *

 

 Mme Leveque is, well, perhaps _insane_ is going a little far (Enjolras’ zeal for political correction has rubbed off, after all) but she is definitely a few screws short of a functional lightbulb.

‘These are my cats,’ she announces proudly, and gestures to a shelf full of dead, stuffed animals. ‘They all have names.’

‘Oh god,’ Grantaire says quietly. ‘What the fuck.’

Thankfully, in this day and age, it’s a simple matter to take a few photos with his D5200 (a gift from Marius, the affable twat) and promise a painting in a few weeks. Grantaire tries not to shudder as he arranges the dead cats around Mme Leveque’s armchair. She gives a creepy smile, somewhat reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter when the flash goes.

He’s given a stale slice of _flaugnarde_ for his trouble, and ushered out of Leveque’s gorgeous two-bedroom apartment, overlooking the literal Palais du Trocadero, what the fuck. He hates the 16th, he really does. For all his protested cynicism, Grantaire truly despises rich people. Even poor Marius, who cannot help his flagrant and flamboyant wealth, comes under fire.

He should probably get back to his old apartment, pack up the remainder of his stuff, but Marmottan is only minutes away and he’s got a little time left, so he lopes over and refreshes his memory in the galleries. Monet’s always been his weakness, anyway. Every time Jehan suggests lunch in the Tuileries, they end up on the top floor of the Orangerie, staring at the _Nympheas_. Sue him; he’s an artist. 

It’s easy to love this museum, not only because of the work, or the friendly attendants- who by this point know him mostly by name. It’s in the middle of the most bourgeoisie district in the entire city, yes, and costs a somewhat inordinate nine euros, but hell if it isn’t worth it. Grantaire wanders the pale wooden floors, taken a little aback by the smooth elegance of the presentation; paintings suspended on glass. 

Not only Monet, either, but Morisot. Grantaire stops briefly to study one of his favourites; _Julie Manet et sa levrette Laerte._  The long, sinuous lines astound him all over again, the dog’s head tilted upwards, the navy sweep of the girl’s dress. It’s nice to have a woman break the monotony of men, sometimes. _Les trois grandes dames_ , as Geffroy put it. Grantaire really does like her the best out of Bracquemond and Cassatt, although _The Artist’s Son and Sister_ ’s use of light is stunning.

Beautiful as the rest of them are- Pissarro, Degas- it’s always the Monets that grab him. Grantaire’s favorite paintings are always changing. Today he skims over the Nympheas- although _dieu_ but that glorious wreck of purple always gets to him- and settles at Impression, Sunrise. Staring rather bleakly at the glowing pinprick of orange set so masterfully in the canvas, Grantaire wonders if Fujikuma, master thief and yakuza gangster that he was, had loved it just as much. Or if, in 1985, October, he’d wielded his pistol and picked up the painting and thought no more about it.

Perhaps that’s what is appealing today; its longevity, its quiet and steadfast determination. _I have been taken and found my way back to my home, in Paris_. That’s what the canvas says to him. _Fucking try it again_. Grantaire smiles at it, perhaps a little wider than a century old painting deserves, judging by the odd look he gets from a nearby woman.

If he could, he would stay there forever.

Alas, he’s got work to do. Having indulged in a hideously overpriced and overbrewed espresso shot (ugh) from the museum café, Grantaire accepts defeat and makes his way to La Muette. The metro is quieter today, even if it is Friday, and there are enough empty seats for Grantaire to put his sketchbook up and flip through the photos on his camera.

 _God_. He’s no idea how he’s supposed to turn Mme Leveque into the austere beauty she obviously aspires to be. It’s the dead cats. They add a little _Chainsaw Massacre_ feel. He’ll try, though; take a little liberty on Madame’s cheekbones, soften the palette a little so all those unseeing eyes don’t seem quite as murdery.

His phone rings- Courfeyrac set _Mon Coloc_ as the ringtone, gleefully, a few months ago. It earns him a snort from the green-haired boy opposite. Brat. ‘ _Allo?’_

‘Hey. It’s Enjolras.’

Oh. Grantaire sinks a little in his seat and frowns, wondering what he possibly could have done to require a scolding in the broad daylight hours. ‘…hey?’

‘Is this a good time?’

He shrugs, checking the stops; two more before he has to switch lines. ‘No, it’s all good. What’s up?’

‘Well, as you know, we have a protest scheduled against the prostitution laws next month, and I was wondering if you’d help design some posters?’

Ah. That makes more sense; Enjolras wants something from him. Grantaire taps his phone against his mouth before making a decision. ‘Okay.’

‘Really?’ Enjolras’ crackly, tinned voice sounds offensively surprised. ‘I can pay-‘

Ouch. That really does sting. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Free of charge. I’m not a _service_.’

Silence, long and awkward. ‘I know that,’ Enjolras says, but he’s not angry, it’s…regretful? Sad? Bad connection? ‘I didn’t mean to imply anything. We all know how much you help us, and it’s appreciated.’ He clears his throat. ‘ _I_ appreciate it. You, that is.’

 _God what is happening? ‘_ You’re not dying of some terminal illness, are you?’ Grantaire asks, regretting the words as soon as they’re out of his stupid mouth.

‘What? No.’

‘Well.’ He literally cannot come up with an answer for this one. ‘I guess I’ll see you?’

‘Grantaire-‘

The line cuts out (good) and it’s Grantaire’s stop. He gets off the train and chews his nails and definitively does not think of anything at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Adrien is waging a cheerful and good war with the coffee machine in the staff room when Grantaire walks in on Saturday morning. He’s also sporting a bright yellow bandana, which is charming in a dorky way, and clashes horribly with his hair in a way Jehan would swoon over 

‘Hey,’ Grantaire says. ‘Fighting the righteous fight?’

Adrien looks up, stricken. ‘It won’t talk to me,’ he says. There’s a sad groan from the Nespresso machine, as if it’s wheezing out its last laboured breaths.

‘Calm down,’ Grantaire tells it. And then to Adrien, ‘I’ll have a look.’

Five minutes later, the first couple of coffees are produced, a la Jesus from Mary’s womb. Adrien sips his appreciatively. ‘Are you some sort of god?’ he asks wonderingly.

‘No. Just an artist who moonlights as a Nespresso whisperer.’ Grantaire hops up on the counter, legs swinging. Adrien leans opposite him. Their knees are very close to touching.

‘An artist?’ And yes, there is a very obvious look of interest there. Oh, the joys of idealistic, easily seduced youth.

‘Unfortunately.’

‘Did you design your own tattoos?’ Adrien asks.

‘Yes and no. Jehan helped.’ Grantaire grins at the thought of his chest piece; a bird, navy feathers stretching out to turquoise across his ribs. Everyone says watercolors fade but he hadn’t been able to resist the idea of getting something. It’s an obvious metaphor but a good one.

‘Jehan? That tiny dude?’ Adrien doesn’t seem to mean it in a bad way, and Jehan, at barely 5’2, _is_ tiny, so Grantaire doesn’t raise an eyebrow. ‘Are you guys together?’

Grantaire coughs a laugh. ‘No. We were, but that was years ago. He’s more of a good friend now.’ He purposefully neglects to mention the occasional kissing; some people’s definitions of relationships are a lot less flexible than his.

‘So you like guys?’ Adrien’s lack of subtlety should not be as endearing as it is. Grantaire smiles kindly at him, and scuffs his sneaker against Adrien’s.

‘Guys, girls, neither. I’m easy.’ He gulps down the coffee, and considers. ‘Hey, a bunch of us are going to Saint-Denis tonight. Wanna come?’

Adrien grins, his face lighting up. Grantaire feels abruptly very cruel, as if he’s doing something wrong. ‘I’d like that,’ he says. ‘Should I…’

‘Come with me and Jehan after work. We can get dinner before.’

He doesn’t know why he did it. All throughout the day, Grantaire attempts to understand; the moments in between, the way his fingers curled around the mug. It’s Enjolras’ fault, obviously; that phone call has had him on edge since yesterday. _I appreciate you_. The fuck does that even mean?

Enjolras has never appreciated him- why should he? Grantaire picks fights, he fails to show up to important meetings, he draws explicit cartoons of Enjolras’ favorite historical figures having sex with his least. Sure, he helps fundraise, he designs posters and flyers, he ran all the way to Combeferre’s flat that one time when they forgot the thumbdrive. But Enjolras has devoted his life to his club. Amis is everything to him. Grantaire just…does the bare minimum.

He’s so distracted that Fantine has to snap her fingers at him before he starts to fill out the stocktake. Jehan watches him closely, eyes narrowed.

‘You’re off, today,’ he accuses, at break. The effect is ruined by the overlarge bite of baguette, and the subsequent near death experience. Grantaire pats him on the back, and watches Adrien talk on the phone, outside. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ Grantaire mutters. ‘I invited Adrien to Club Raye.’

Jehan stares at him, torn between joy and deep, deep suspicion. ‘Okay, good, but- why? You weren’t that keen on him on Thursday.’

‘I, uh- took your words into consideration?’ Grantaire tries.

‘Bullshit.’

‘Enjolras called me, and it was really weird and I’m freaked out.’

Jehan nods, as if he expected nothing else. ‘Better. Okay, I’m not going to ask, but be careful. Adrien likes you.’

‘Yeah,’ Grantaire says miserably. ‘He does.’

Saturday night settles in over Paris like a worn old record, spinning around, raising heartbeats. Grantaire loves the night, loves watching the absolute disgusting cliché of the Tour Eiffel being lit up like a capitalist Christmas tree.

They get dinner at a cheap as fuck Indian place in Saint-Denis- barely better than street food, but hot and spicy enough to burn. Grantaire sweeps his naan through his lamb vindaloo, the proper way Bahorel had taught him. He remembers Bahorel scoffing at the Indian food on offer here, how they mixed south and north without discernment, how nobody fucking eats _butter chicken_. No fucking _raita_ , he’d moaned. Where’s the fucking _raita_?

He likes it, but then he’s an uncultured French fuck, so.

Club Raye is something of an Amis staple, ever since Courf had dragged them all there in his second year. It’s either chilled or raving, and there are enough cavernous bars to slip into one unnoticed, or to sprawl across a bunch of booths. It’s good, tonight; some jazz live band. Jehan and Grantaire head immediately for a couple of tables under a striped black and white ceiling. It always trips him out, this spot.

Adrien sits next to him, lanky legs nearly pressed into Grantaire’s. ‘I’ve never been here,’ he says, a little wonderingly. He’s already downed a martini, and is now nursing some kind of vodka soda combo. The live band switches to a pretty good cover of Yves Montand.

Grantaire, for his part, sticks to water. He doesn’t feel like getting drunk tonight. ‘It’s pretty cool,’ he says noncommittally. Adrien falls into silence and Grantaire feels guilt creeping up his spine.

It’s not long before the others get here; Combeferre in his neat blazer, Courfeyrac sporting a pair of neon orange trousers. They hold hands, which they sometimes do- occasionally Grantaire wonders about them, but Jehan always shrugs.

Eponine sits on his other side and kisses the side of his mouth. Her hair is in Ghana braids today, gathered into a bun at the back of her head. Her dark skin gleams under the dim lights, and when Grantaire inhales, he smells spice.

‘You’ve been cooking,’ he accuses.

‘Tsire,’ she admits.

‘Fuck.’

She studies him for a moment, then flashes a smile. ‘I made you a container.’ She withdraws it from the depths of that beaded bag she always carries. ‘You thank Mamamama before you eat it, you parasite.’

‘I love you.’

Bahorel slaps his back, which actually really hurts, and Musichetta tangles her fingers in his bun and tugs playfully. He feels surrounded by love, and it bleeds straight into him. When Bousset breaks a glass, they all laugh and dive to their knees to pick up the pieces.

And then Enjolras. He looks tired today, Grantaire notices, without his usual fire. But he’s still beautiful, even exhausted, and it still makes his stomach twist. When they meet each other’s eyes, Enjolras offers a small, genuine smile, baring just the edges of his teeth. Grantaire swallows, mouth dry, and lifts his glass of water. Enjolras’ gaze slips to Adrien, and Grantaire watches as his smile is smothered, with the sense that something precious has just been lost.

Adrien, for his part, is basking in the attention of Courfeyrac, who leans half across the table to loudly comment on how much he loves the Arcadian dialect. Combeferre maintains a wearily fond grip on his elbow, lest Courf go toppling to the floor. Everyone else seems to melt around Adrien too, with Joly including him in his medical seminar about not sharing drinks or kissing strangers without a dental dam. Even Eponine is friendly, which mainly consists of some polite small talk, and no punching.

The same cannot be said of Enjolras, who takes the seat opposite Grantaire and downs an entire shot in one gulp. The table falls collectively silent.

‘What?’ Enjolras snaps. ‘I’m having fun.’ The look on his face indicates otherwise.

‘Enj,’ says Courf, who will forever be the only person to be allowed that nickname. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

Courfeyrac, wisely, backs off. ‘No reason. Hey, this Adrien. He’s _Canadian_.’ Courf gestures proudly across the table as if he himself had begat Adrien from his own loins.

Enjolras snarls. ‘Good for him.’

‘Hey,’ Grantaire cuts in. ‘Be nice.’

Enjolras glares at him furiously and- oh, downs another shot. What is that- vodka? Jesus. Grantaire shifts uncomfortably, caught in the bear trap of Enjolras’ gaze. ‘I’m always nice,’ he says, finally, and it’s the tone of voice Grantaire only ever hears when Enjolras is a) drunk and b) flirting. Low, and gravelled. A spool of heat unwinds in his belly.

 _Jesus_. Adrien coughs; the spell is broken.

The rest of the night, regrettably, only goes downhill. While Grantaire watches everyone else get pleasantly buzzed, Enjolras becomes a one-man black hole, consuming any shred of alcohol or goodwill that dares to cross his path. As the night ticks on, and the band is replaced by a DJ (Avicii, god) Enjolras proceeds to get absolutely smashed.

By the time that neon lights cast themselves over his friends’ faces, and people grind against each other on the dance floor, Grantaire wants to leave. He doesn’t know this man across from him, who is silent and staring and refuses to join in on a Sarkozy mocking session. Adrien is forgotten. Grantaire finds it impossible to look away from the lights caught in Enjolras’ hair, the way his mouth shines.

‘About the posters,’ Enjolras says unsteadily, a little later. Courf and Jehan are dancing somewhere; Adrien and Musichetta trade stories about Montreal. ‘I- I thought we could talk-‘

‘Hey,’ Adrien interrupts. ‘Grantaire, you never told me you dropped out of Sorbonne!’

Enjolras’ face goes black. ‘We were _talking_ ,’ he says, over the obnoxious tunes of Robbie Williams. ‘If you don’t mind.’ Cruelly, he’s mimicking Adrien’s accent to the point of exaggeration.

‘Cut it out,’ Musichetta says sharply. ‘Don’t be a damn asshole.’

Adrien flicks his eyes between Enjolras and Grantaire, and finally raises an eyebrow. ‘Wow,’ he says, and takes a swig from his beer. ‘Okay.’

Grantaire wants to die, and then Enjolras shoots up to his feet and the table rocks precariously. ‘Okay _what_? Do you have something to say?’

‘What the fuck is your problem,’ Grantaire hisses, tugging at Enjolras’ sleeve. ‘Get _down.'_

And that’s about the point where all Enjolras’ shots catch up to him, because he turns to look at Grantaire, and then vomits directly onto Musichetta’s lap.

Across the table, Bahorel whistles.

 

* * *

 

‘Asshole,’ Grantaire says, hauling Enjolras’ arm around his shoulders. ‘Fucking piece of shit I swear to god.’ 

Enjolras is obstinately silent, having emptied the contents of his stomach once more, outside the club. They walk, misshapenly, towards the metro stairs. ‘He was a fucking newbie,’ Grantaire continues, ‘what the hell did he do to you? Hang on, watch the step.’

The air is chilled; Grantaire’s jacket was sacrificed to the cause, which was Musichetta’s poor dress. That leaves him in a short sleeved cotton shirt, and a pair of ripped jeans doing nothing for his internal body temperature. Enjolras is fine, with his thick woollen coat and ubiquitous red scarf. He doesn’t even have any puke on him, because he’s Enjolras, and God would not dare to mar his beauty like that.

 _Fucking asshole_.

After the fallout: read, Musichetta screaming, Bahorel thumping the table in hysterics, and multiple ‘glorious leader’ jokes from Courfeyrac, Grantaire had been gifted the duty of seeing the idiot home. Combeferre hadn’t said why, but they all know. None of them can understand Enjolras when he’s wrecked, or furious, or cruel. They’re used to his measured, calm lawyer persona, his kindness, his jokes. Grantaire is used to nothing but the worst of him. He can’t even handle a polite phone call.

It’s not the last train, but it’s close. Thankfully, the carriage is nearly empty. Grantaire settles them near the door, with Enjolras in the aisle, allowing for another vomiting episode. ‘Asshole,’ he says again, but it’s completely defeated.

Adrien had left, too, with an apology and some awkward handwaving. Grantaire knows, he does, that whatever chance he’d had should be now completely ruined. It’s partly his fault; maybe if he had torn himself away from Enjolras and actually paid attention to another human being, Adrien would have stuck around.

‘M’sorry,’ Enjolras says. His voice is very quiet.

‘I should hope so,’ Grantaire says stiffly. ‘Do you have your key?’

‘Mm.’ Enjolras feels around in his pocket, and emerges with a jangled sound of triumph. ‘Here.’

‘Do you feel queasy?’

‘No.’ Enjolras swallows, as the train slows. ‘I am sorry,’ he says. ‘For ruining your date.’

Grantaire snorts, and then shivers. A group of teenagers gets on, and one leers openly at him, her skirt hitched up. He looks away. ‘Adrien wasn’t my date.

‘Whatever he was.’

‘He wasn’t anything.’ Forgive me, he thinks. Adrien’s sweet, but he’s not _this_ ; he’s not Enjolras slumped on the metro, body shaking with the train, hair damp with sweat. Even when he’s a wreck, Grantaire wants to touch him.

‘Why did you bring him, then?’

 _Because I wanted to prove you don’t own my entire universe anymore_. ‘He’s far away from home. It’s his first year here. He’s at ENS, you know. Doing philosophy. You two could have talked Sartre, if you’d stopped gunning vodka.’

Enjolras flinches. ‘That…wasn’t me.’

‘No,’ Grantaire agrees. His voice is very level. ‘That wasn’t. You’re better than that. You’re better than-‘ he pauses, recalibrating, consciously directing himself away from saying harmful shit. ‘Who I used to be. You reminded me of him.’

They sit in the silence. The train slows again, and the teenagers chatter and lounge and smoke cigarettes. They can’t be more than fifteen, all of them. Their lives must look so beautiful; full and stretched out.

‘You’re better now,’ Enjolras says, eventually. ‘Right?’

‘Yes.’ They’re two stations away from Enjolras’ stop.

‘I- I wasn’t good to you,’ Enjolras says, and grasps at his elbow. His fingers are freezing. ‘Back then. I was terrible, I said the most terrible things-‘

‘Forgiven.’ The word comes easily. ‘It was a long time ago.’

Enjolras’ eyes are blown wide. He looks taken apart, stunned. ‘How can you just let it go like that? I _hurt_ you.’

‘I hurt myself,’ Grantaire says. ‘You were collateral.’

One more stop now. His heart is wild, thumping hard against his ribcage. Enjolras digs his nails in, and the pain feels unbelievably real. ‘Grantaire,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Please,’ he says hoarsely. ‘Just leave it.’

Enjolras lets go of his arm, and the night seems very loud.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Regardless. If you want to bring him to,’ and Enjolras struggles a little, mouth twitching, ‘an Amis meeting, I won’t- cause trouble. It was stupid and cruel.’
> 
> Grantaire hesitates, reading a little off the back of Enjolras’ tired eyes. ‘Are you doing okay? Clerking?’
> 
> ‘Yes,’ Enjolras says sharply. ’I’m fine. I just don’t like Rimbaud.’
> 
> ‘Bullshit,’ Grantaire mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um you guys are too sweet! All the comments are so lovely and I'm glad you're enjoying it xx

**chapter two, or the virtue of choice**

Grantaire strides into the sole _Danse Soleil_ studio with a demeanour he hopes communicates wisdom and control, rather than a splitting headache. ‘ _Desolee_. To the barre, please, everyone. I trust you’re warm?’

There is a vague murmur of assent.

Grantaire has been teaching school-level ballet (and dabbling in hip-hop and jazz) for three years. Back in Lyons, his hometown, he’d danced since the age of five. Before his mother had left and his father had started down the determined road of drinking himself to death, there had been hopes that Grantaire would make it to the _Opera national_ \- but circumstances, and Grantaire’s own treacherous genetics, had put a stop to that. Still, he’s talented enough to command respect in a classroom.

‘Christ, Ariana, I said _slow_ tendus, not glacial. And watch that back foot, you’re sickling.’

‘Monsieur,’ the girl replies smartly, ‘you look tired. Were you out late last night?’ She bats her lashes and makes a show of correcting her foot.

Not that he gets respect here. Or pay, for that matter. _Danse Soleil_ is strictly non for profit, hence the one classroom. Grantaire doesn’t mind; he has free time every Sunday morning, so he can afford to give back a little to kids that need it. So from six to twelve, he’s all theirs.

Right now, it’s the intermediate class, full of adolescent girls, jostling for a millisecond of escape. To feel graceful, elegant, untouchable. God knows what kind of shit they go through at home, these kids. Grantaire has seen more than a few bruises, clumsily covered up by foundation a shade too dark, a muted ring around their necks. He wants to yell at them sometimes, take them in his arms and yank them away from their crappy, undeserved lives. He knows. He’s been there; seen the blur of his father’s wedding ring, the way Gavroche flinches if you touch him too fast and without warning. _Children_. How can anyone beat a child?

But that’s the thing about being here. You aren’t there to save them, and even if you try they won’t listen. Street kids don’t like pity. If anyone had tried to help Grantaire when he was their age, he’d have hissed and spat and clawed.

The class rolls through- Grantaire guides them through the centre, demonstrating acceptable form for a _port de bras_ and having it completely ignored. He watches _battements_ from the sidelines and smiles wearily but fondly, correcting technique where it could cause injury, but generally focussing on praise. He loves seeing the girls perk up and straighten, loves watching their confidence creep up, the vague notion of their own beauty being solidified. That’s why he does this for no pay and no authority. He doesn’t care about perfection, he cares that his students feel safe. Nobody here is going to become a _prima_ ; that is not the point.

The exception being, of course, Ariana. She’s precise and measured where the others are blind; her lines are exceptional. At the end of the year, Grantaire assigns them all solos to perform for a showcase to _Soleil’s_ sponsors. Last year, Ariana had nailed every step of Persephone. She’s tall and willowy, her arms are long and her legs are unbelievable. She’s his little gem.

After the torture that is _allegro_ , and watching the class blunder through a series of _fouettes_ that probably prompted Darcy Bussell to wake up crying, Grantaire stops Ariana as she makes to leave.

‘Monsieur?’ she asks. She’s tall, nearly as tall as he is, but so thin he could break her. The tiny tendons in her wrists are drawn taut.

‘Ariana.’ Grantaire smiles at her. ‘I want you to think about the Royal. The new year starts in September, and there are scholarships for disadvantaged and talented students. The auditions are in August.’

Ariana drops her tough stance, her mocking smirk, and just stares. ‘You really think I’m good enough?’ she asks, just a touch of wonder. Her eyes are far too large for her sharp face, wide and green and fresh. Strands of dark hair escape her chignon to kiss her temples.

He grins, and it feels real. ‘I do. I want you to consider it. We can talk more later.’

Ariana looks at him like children should, free of premature cynicism or wisdom. ‘ _Grazie_ ,’ she says, abandoning French for her native Italian, the lilt rolling off her tongue. ‘ _Senor, grazie_.’ She bounces, beaming, and flees out of the room with her pointe shoes dangling from her bag. Grantaire is left with the florescent silence of the studio; a radio playing The Cure.

All at once, Grantaire remembers Enjolras. It’s something about the ceiling, he’s sure. Last night lingers in his veins like a hangover. He remembers the warm weight of Enjolras’ arm around his neck, the way they staggered through Denfert Rochereau, tasting the stink of the station walls, climbing the stairs together, the sour tang of beggar’s piss. Enjolras’ breath against his hair, the distant laughter of teenagers and lovers echoing against the dirty tiles. They hadn’t spoken after Enjolras’ wrecked apology, just moved easily and quietly through the 14th’s murmured streets.

Enjolras lives close to death; the _Cimetière du Montparnasse_ is just a road away from rue Froideveux, easily visible from the bedroom window. Not that Grantaire has ever been in Enjolras’ bedroom, but it’s a common meeting place before a protest, or for parties and movie nights. Grantaire doesn’t come to those, in the interests of his mental health.

He’d stood in the door last night, watching Enjolras fumble his keys, devoid of his usual grace. Those long fingers, the silver ring on his index. Eventually, Grantaire had stepped in and turned the handle himself, only barely glancing at the clean wooden floors and white walls.

‘Thank you,’ Enjolras had said, his voice rough and catching, his back to Grantaire. He had been embarrassed already. Grantaire had only shrugged and walked away, tracing his hand down the steel railing.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he’d called back, but the door was shut and nobody was listening.

He’d caught an Uber home.

Now, of course, the whole thing sends him into a fit of shame and confusion. The only saving grace is the lease he’s signing in an hour, and the new home he’ll be making come tomorrow. Grantaire fantasizes about that the whole way to Montmartre, when he’s shoving his pass into the machine and waiting at the station and sitting idly on the train. He makes eyes at the pretty girl opposite, and feels the tight knot in his stomach uncoil as she blushes.

Enjolras is not his world. He’s a grown man, with a job and a hobby and friends. If he wanted, he could lean over to this girl and ask her out. He could get a drink with her tonight, watch her down a martini and kiss her mouth. Maybe even, if she wanted to, he could go back to her place and bend his head between her thighs. That means he’s free, doesn’t it 

_God_. Enjolras’ white teeth, his smart, arrogant little gestures. The pressing bruise of his touch. The way his lean body swayed with the train and his forehead was slicked with sweat. Fuck. There should be a limit on how long you can love someone unrequitedly.

The girl looks at him and licks her lips. Grantaire turns his head and stares blindly out of the window, imagining somebody else’s hands on his neck.

 

* * *

 

 

_i heard u signed a leeeassseee ru gonna have a housewarming????_

_who told u that_

_….maaybe eponine_

_courf I s2g_

_told ferre as well & he told chetta & co. _

_leave me alone_

_ru gonna have one tho_

_no_

_pls_

_NO_

_plssss taire_

_turning my phone off now_

* * *

 

 

It’s surprisingly easy, swinging your life around. Well, at this point, signing his name on the lease, Grantaire at least feels like it is. All in all, less than ten minutes and they’re done. Floreal slots a copy into her purple, sleek binder and sends him a smile.

‘They’ll be inspections bimonthly,’ she says mildly. Her heels click.

‘Got it,’ he says, practically bouncing.

‘Any sort of undue damage and your lease will be revoked.’

‘Aye aye, yes, completely on board.’ He’s already mentally planning everything; easel and paints over there, that stupid vase Jehan got him on the windowsill…

‘Well.’ Floreal’s mouth is a pointed plum shade, perfectly matching the sweep of her dark hair. ‘As of tomorrow, you live here.’ She presses the keys into Grantaire’s hands. ‘I hope you won’t be spending too much on furniture.’

The first thing he does, once she leaves, is call Eponine. ‘I’m renting a flat,’ he says, as soon as she picks up. ‘In Montmartre. I live in Paris. I live in central Paris, I am _Parisian_.’ His heart beats so fast that his body is shaking with it.

‘Congrats,’ she says dryly. ‘Thanks for not boasting.’

Grantaire’s hands are trembling. ‘Ep, I think of where I was three years ago, and I- it’s just.’ His throat closes up. ‘I didn’t think I’d _live_ this long.’ It comes out in a rush. ‘I thought I’d have drank myself to death or, or-‘

‘Hey,’ Eponine says, the sharp tone gone. He imagines her fingers sweeping through his hair, like a mother or a nurse. ‘It’s okay. You did it. You got out.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, and his voice is choked. ‘It’s just a lot to take in right now.’

‘I know.’

‘Things like this don’t happen to people like me.’

‘ ‘Taire, there are no _people like you_. You got depressed, and then you recovered. You manage a bookstore. You teach dance to street brats.’ She draws in an even breath. ‘You deserve this. It’s not a fluke.’

Grantaire laughs, thick with the edge of tears. ‘You know,’ he says. ‘I think I will have a housewarming.’

Eponine’s smile floats to him, through the receiver. ‘Good,’ she says warmly. ‘I’ll buy you a rug.’ And then she hangs up.

If someone were to ask Grantaire why he loves Eponine Thernadier, they would be listening to the answer for a very long time. Because she was the first person he met in Paris that didn’t want something from him. Because she once beat off a would-be rapist with a steel pipe. Because she forgave her swindling, soulless parents for the sake of her brother. _GrantaireandEponine_ , from ages seventeen to twenty, locked together in some chemical way they never understood.

And they grew up, yes; Eponine fucked Montparnasse and ended up with a shitty boyfriend and a shittier apartment. Grantaire drank himself to an incapacitating blood alcohol level and wandered Spain for a summer. They are so far from the kids who intertwined their limbs on Grantaire’s couch and smoked pot, attempting to forget the boys who didn’t love them back. Marius was never good enough anyway.

But even now, with longer limbs and thinner faces, with childhood left in their collected dust- Eponine still comes to all of his boxing matches. It’s that kind of dizzying platonic love that transcends the label of ‘friend’ or ‘sister’. They just belong to each other.

Left with that burst of warmth, Grantaire’s momentary fear recedes. Another thing about depression; the way it makes you feel as if anything remotely good is unreachable. Because you don’t deserve to be happy. He’s tried so long to forget that kind of thinking that this cautious acceptance and simple joy is hard to swallow.

He spends the rest of Sunday packing up his old place. All the clothes and valuables go into his suitcase, with the books lined in crates for Bahorel to pick up tomorrow. His art is wrapped in sheets, along with the occasional piece he bought from the flea markets, and he bundles what’s left of the crockery in with it.

All in all, with a flatpacked bedframe and a dismantled wardrobe, Grantaire needs a table, chairs, a couch and a mattress for his new place. Everything else is either unnecessary or gifted; Jehan’s giving him an old armchair and coffee table, while Courf texts him several blurry photos of bathmats and plates. They’re all captioned ‘in need of a good home’ which is either smug or cute.

The night looms close, and Grantaire sits alone in his empty flat, accompanied by the occasional scream of an ambulance. The couple above him are arguing again. Fred’s American dubstep music thumps the walls. Grantaire idly traces a scratch left on the wooden floor, and closes his eyes. He wonders about what his father would think, if he could see Grantaire like this. Would he be proud, to have him for a son?

Is he even alive?

Grantaire hasn’t been back to Lyons since he ran away, six years ago. He hasn’t sent cards, or texts, or any indication that _he’s_ alive, either. Usually, the thought doesn’t bother him. He’s hated his parents for so long that pity or shame are unthinkable. And yet. Does his father think him dead? Was he mourned?

_Forgive me_ , he thinks. _For not caring._  

 

* * *

 

Adrien is standoffish (understandable) on Monday morning. Grantaire hunkers down by the poetry section, and feverishly rearranges Vikram Seth, cursing Fantine’s insistence on sorting texts by genre. Honestly, what the fuck does it matter if it’s New Formalism? Alphabetical makes more sense to customers. Not everyone got their Literature degree from _Cambridge_.

Grantaire can barely look at Adrien before he starts remembering Friday night; Enjolras’ fantastic show of alcoholism, the subsequent vomit, Adrien’s small- _wow_. Christ, leave it to Enjolras to ruin any possible meaningful romantic connection Grantaire could form. If it’s not the idea of him, it’s his digestive system.

Claude had said much the same, when he and Grantaire were dating. Claude had also been a pretentious motherfucker of an oboist, however, and fucked one of the second violinists in his orchestra. Grantaire decides not to attach any emotional weight to anything Claude said to him ever.

Still, he does feel bad about Adrien. The kid’s only about nineteen, twenty- he’s in a new place, at the scarily academic ENS, studying old dusty philosophy tomes. Paris can be intimidating. Well. _Parisians_ can be intimidating, as Enjolras so kindly proved. The least Adrien deserves is an apologetic blowjob.

However, it’s unlikely Grantaire will be getting anywhere close to Adrien’s pants. Jehan makes ‘uh oh’ faces behind the counter at Grantaire all day, and even Fantine notices the decided chill in the air. ‘I hope,’ she says pleasantly, catching Grantaire’s sleeve, ‘you haven’t managed to scare off the newest member of our team in less than a week.’

‘Uh,’ he says.

‘Because that would be impressive. Even for you.’

‘ _Uh_.’

Fantine must read something sympathetic on his face, because she purses her lips and taps his temple with one long finger. ‘My boy,’ she says. ‘Whatever you’ve done, apologise. He’s too good for business. I can’t lose him. I’m considering hanging up the Canadian flag in the window.’

‘Capitalist,’ Grantaire says sourly. But money-grabbing or not, she’s right. It’s not good for business to have employees at each other’s throats. And, ironically, Grantaire has never enjoyed conflict overmuch. The constant fighting with Enjolras had been draining. He much prefers this tentative, dull peace.

‘I’m sorry,’ Grantaire tries, at the end of the day. Adrien finishes wrapping up a copy of Dan Brown for a poor, unsuspecting soul. Grantaire resists the urge to snatch the book away and replace it with something readable, and instead drums his paint-stained nails on the table.

Adrien shakes his autumn hair. ‘It’s fine,’ he says grudgingly. ‘I just- I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, that’s all.’

_Motherfucker_. ‘What?’

‘That hot blonde guy? The one who puked all on that girl, Chetta? He tried to start a fight over-

‘Yes,’ Grantaire snaps, a little testy. ‘I remember. And he wasn’t my boyfriend. That was just Enjolras.’

Adrien could be the dictionary definition for sceptical right now. ‘Uh huh. He burst a vein as soon as he saw me.’

‘He was having a bad day,’ Grantaire says, and swallows. Jehan, who is studiously avoiding their conversation, closes the front door. ‘Look, we never really got on, me and him. He probably marked you down as a troublemaker. He hates trouble.’ Grantaire pauses, reflects, and sees Enjolras in his mind’s eye, screaming abuse at a police officer. ‘Well. Trouble that isn’t for a greater cause.’

‘Oh,’ Adrien says. When he thinks, he gets a crease between his eyebrows, and Grantaire suddenly wants to smooth it out with his thumb. He really is handsome, with his messy hair and effortless, bright smile. In another life, Grantaire took him home last Friday and kissed him, over and over, and laughed as he unbuttoned his shirt. This is not that life. ‘So you’re single.’

_Dangerous territory, boy_ , Grantaire cautions himself. But fuck, he wants to be with someone again. Not just sex, although his libido is, as Jehan describes it, _exhaustive_. He wants to go grocery shopping, and hold hands, and stand in Sainte-Chappelle together and mock the tourists. He wants to wake up to someone again. Another heartbeat.

Maybe…maybe it could work. Not _forever_ , of course, but long enough that Enjolras didn’t pain him by existing.

‘Yes,’ Grantaire decides. ‘I am.’ He tries out a smile for size, and finds that it fits. ‘And, um, as I am so definitely single, I’d be very happy if we grabbed a coffee sometime.’

Adrien goes a little red, which is endearing and aesthetically pleasing. He touches his hair and sweeps it back. The colors shine in the lamplight of _Tourne la Page_. Grantaire thinks: someone could so easily fall in love with you. He thinks: I hope it’s me.

‘I’ve never been to the Louvre,’ Adrien says, shyly. Grantaire beams.

‘Well, it’s a date then. As an ex-fine arts student, I can supply you with only the best shitty artistic discourse. I’m particularly confident on my Renaissance bullshit, actually.’

Adrien’s laugh is impossibly Canadian. ‘I’d like that,’ he says fondly 

They both hover there, in the dying May light. It feels like Grantaire’s made a promise, and is dreaming of breaking it.

 

* * *

 

 

With Bahorel’s van stacked with all the leftover shit he sort of thought he’d forgotten, Grantaire’s rundown old flat looks hideous. There’s the stain- blood or wine- that spreads across the wall, there’s the broken fridge and flaking ceiling.

‘We will miss you,’ Mme Buendias says, while simultaneously inspecting the paperwork with an eagle eye, to see if she can finagle him into staying. ‘You are such a good boy. Always have been.’ She taps her headscarf. ‘I remember when you were so small, coming to me and begging for a place to stay.’

‘I don’t think it happened quite that way-‘

‘And I found it in my heart to give you a home.’

‘Well, actually-‘

‘You think of me, yes? With all those _Parisienne_. Don’t go speaking all fancy.’ She sniffs, apparently finished with her display of sentiment. ‘Okay, you can go.’ Abruptly, she squeezes his arm tight enough to leave bruises, and wanders back downstairs to watch television.

‘Wow,’ says Bahorel. ‘That’s-‘

‘Yeah.’

They stand in the doorway of the old place. ‘You wanna say a few last words?’ Bahorel asks.

‘Um,’ Grantaire says, remembering his Catholic upbringing. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness all my sins. Especially that one time with the two girls. Oh, and that guy with the whips. I’m sure you’re a nice place.’

‘ _Asatho maa sad gamaya,’_ Bahorel recites solemnly. ‘ _Thamaso maa jyothir gamaya. Om shanti.’_

‘Did you just give a Hindi funeral rite to my flat?’

‘My mother would be so proud,’ Bahorel says serenely. ‘I’ll go start the car. Come down when you’re ready.’

He leaves, and Grantaire’s smile fades. All joking aside, this is a big thing. This is transition, the heart of it- from kid to adult, from victim to survivor. He’s older now, he’s wiser, he’s not downing bottles of wine or thinking about killing himself every five minutes. He can afford to think in past tense. Growing hurts. Of course it does. Some part of him doesn’t want to leave here, or to risk himself. He doesn’t want to try because failing is par for the course and god, but he is wrecked when he fails.

Police sirens scream, which is vaguely alarming, as Clichy-sous-Bois doesn’t _have_ a police station. They must have come a long way. The thought shakes Grantaire out of his melancholy fog.

 ‘Fuck you, Clichy-sous-Bois,’ he says. ‘I live in _Paris_.’

 

* * *

 

 

In lieu of the Amis’ usual Monday night meeting, Courf has bullied everyone into a housewarming for Grantaire. As Bahorel parks across the street and begins to carry all the boxes up, Grantaire’s friends come pouring into his empty flat, bearing cheap wine from Bordeaux that Courf says was forced upon him in Auchan. Enjolras comes too- unwinds his scarf in a way that makes Grantaire’s heart thud awfully.

Eponine puts on some Nigerian pop that nobody understands but everyone attempts to sing along to, while Jehan braids hair and Courf swans around in a pretence of inspection. Bousset, Joly and Musichetta sprawl gloriously together, tangled in a way that suggests they’re all regularly getting laid. Furniture is assembled- Jehan’s, mostly- and the empty living room takes shape with aplomb. Everyone coos at Grantaire’s rolled canvases as Bahorel carefully sets them up in the bedroom. Books are tossed around like footballs.

Marius arrives, too, with Cosette and pizza from Pink Flamingo. ‘Congratulations’ is barely out of her mouth before Grantaire groans in appreciation.

‘Fuck me,’ Grantaire says, ‘is that the Poulidor?’ He tears the box from her hands with deep lust. ‘Don’t touch it, it’s mine.’

‘We’re aware,’ Cosette says dryly. ‘You think I’d forget the Pizza Fiasco of 2015 in a hurry?’

Grantaire briefly relives the most awful night of his life. ‘Do you think I’m still banned?’

‘Yes,’ Marius says, with uncharacteristic force. ‘You are still banned.’

‘Add it to the list,’ Bahorel shouts.

‘Fuck you.’

‘ _Kutte ke tatte_.’

The air is getting warmer and summer smiles from the corners of the horizon, announcing its imminence. Grantaire closes his eyes and opens the windows, and settles down on the new couch that Joly surprised him with.

‘Hey,’ Combeferre says, sitting next to him.

‘Hey.’ They exist in a good silence.

Grantaire and Combeferre have never been overly close. Enjolras hated him for a long while, and Combeferre’s work ethic is demanding enough that Grantaire’s own slacker-creed was repulsive. After Enjolras finished law school, though, everyone else seemed to soften. Now they get along well, having found in this new tender adulthood, a level of camaraderie; foreign films they both enjoy, a weakness for Piaf, the same cologne.

‘How’s the thesis going?’

‘Bah.’

Combeferre’s in his third cycle of med studies, now; his _externat_ was finished two years ago. Now he’s rolled the die, so to speak, and settled on general practicing. One more year of boarding school, and the completion of a thesis, and then he’s done. Not a moment too soon, Grantaire thinks; Combeferre often looks about a decade older than twenty-six.

‘How’s the art?’ Combeferre returns.

‘Bah.’

They laugh a little. Across from them, Courf attempts to arm wrestle Feuilly, who rolls up his sleeves and grins.

The music shifts. _Kind of child who knew…_ That’s English, isn’t it? Grantaire’s mouth feels dry. All evening he’s tried not to look at Enjolras, and all evening he has failed. The riotous joy has failed to reach him; Enjolras sits quietly on the floor and flips through paperwork, an untouched beer by his side.

Sometimes just to look at him is all Grantaire ever thinks to ask. He aches for a sketchbook and a pencil, just to graze the bare outlines, to commit this flash of a scene to memory. The slope of his neck falling gracefully, the long fingers, the glasses that sit precariously on his nose.

He once went to Florence, in the course of the Spanish six-month break. Caught a flight into Italy, and in the beating sun, sat in the Uffizi until Botticelli made sense. He remembers with a sort of singing pain, the gilt-framed room, the singular central bench. How Pallas Athene looked, in the Italian light. He had stumbled out of the gallery in a daze, gotten lost in circles around the Duma. Even the sight of the Arno glittering against the Ponte Vecchio had offered no relief. Everything was too beautiful, and too bright.

Grantaire feels the shadow of Florence as he looks at Enjolras, now. The joyful, agonizing beauty that so consumed him. Surprisingly, his eyes burn. He has to wipe them discreetly, and look away before anyone notices. This must be love, he thinks. Nothing else can feel like this.

So the evening passes, as his new home takes shape. There’s a Sorrentino print- Il Divo- that Feuilly got for him, and the TV perching upon Jehan’s old coffee table. The books are taken out from crates and stood on shelves. Plates are assembled, the bed is unpacked. Yes. Home. That’s the word, for a place like this.

Enjolras catches his sleeve, as people begin to filter out around midnight. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Sure.’

Enjolras tugs him nearer the window. ‘About the other night-‘

‘No,’ Grantaire says, panicked. ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’

‘I was just going to apologize.’ Enjolras looks affronted. ‘It would be rude to just ignore it.’

‘Because you’re the soul of civility.’

‘It was _embarrassing,_ ’ Enjolras snaps.

‘Well, life is the farce we are all forced to endure, after all.’ He can’t seem to stop the caustic tone, or the curl of a smirk. Why? Why does Enjolras _always_ do this to him?

‘Could you not quote Rimbaud for one fucking day?’

Oh god, it rises on his tongue. He can’t _stop_. ‘Every moon is atrocious-‘

‘ _For fuck’s sake!_ ’ It is a yell. The remainder of his friends all shift away, used to their arguments.

Grantaire stops short. Enjolras’ perfect Parisian has slipped into broad, singing Marseilles- something that only happens when he’s particularly angry. It’s also something that only Grantaire can cause. It hasn’t happened for quite some time. Not since Patheon-Assas.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

Enjolras sighs. ‘Look, I know you don’t want to accept it, but I am sorry. It won’t happen again. The next time Adam-‘

‘ _Adrien-‘_

‘Regardless. If you want to bring him to,’ and Enjolras struggles a little, mouth twitching, ‘an Amis meeting, I won’t- cause trouble. It was stupid and cruel.’

Grantaire hesitates, reading a little off the back of Enjolras’ tired eyes. ‘Are you doing okay? Clerking?’

‘Yes,’ Enjolras says sharply. ’I’m fine. I just don’t like Rimbaud.’

‘Bullshit,’ Grantaire mutters.

‘Just because he’s _prominent_ doesn’t mean I have to worship him. Some of us prefer Baudelaire and- _dieu_.  This isn’t what I wanted to say.’ He sighs, sweeps his hair back. ‘I did want to sort out the posters.’

‘Posters?’

‘For the protest we’re planning. You do remember, don’t you?’

Oh. That harried phone call on the Metro. ‘Right,’ Grantaire says reluctantly. ‘I remember. Prostitution laws.’

‘You could sound a little more enthused.’

Grantaire pastes a soulless grin on his face. ‘Prostitution laws! My favourite!’

‘Bah. You’re impossible.’ Two years ago, Enjolras would have meant it, but tonight there’s an actual physical _smile_. He made Enjolras _smile_. ‘I want to work with you on the design for the posters. When’s your day off this week?’

Grantaire is regrettably on autopilot. ‘Thursday.’

‘I’ll see you then.’ Enjolras pauses, a little awkwardly. ‘I’m glad you like the place. Montmartre suits you.’

Usually, he’d just say _au revoir_ and leave; Grantaire never gets the kiss on the cheek, as everyone else does. For some reason Enjolras can barely even stand to use the informal verbs on him- it took him a full year to shift from _vous_ to _tu_. But tonight Grantaire must be on acid or something, because Enjolras leans right across and brushes his mouth brusquely across Grantaire’s stubbled cheek.

‘ _A jeudi_ ,’ he says, and sweeps out of Grantaire’s flat.

‘ _Fuuuuuuck_ ,’ he lets out. Only Eponine is left to hear him.

‘ _Mon chou_ ,’ she says mockingly. ‘Are your knees weak?’ She’s a little drunk, but still sober enough to wink in coordination.

‘Go away,’ he says tiredly. Even the city seems to laugh.

 

* * *

 

 

Tuesday morning takes him by surprise. He figures he should get going with Madame Leveque in the morning light; sets up his canvas in the living room. He tacks a printout of the photo on the wall, and spends a good amount of time calming himself, applying the coat of size to raw canvas. It’s only linen for this woman, who appears to think herself Queen Liz I, and himself as Gheeraerts.

He’s always favoured pencil over paint, so the drawing out stage is when he feels most at ease, before the OMS messes with his nose and all the paint and despair gets to him. Despite the creepy stuffed cats and Mme. Leveque’s faintly Batesy expression, it’s easy enough for Grantaire to fall into his space. He uses acrylic for the ground- they’re easier under the oils- and debates a white ground before deciding Mme. is a challenge enough.

His shift is at three, so there’s only really enough time to block out the darker areas before he has to leave. It looks vaguely like a preschooler’s adventure with leftover espresso, but it always does at this stage.

At _Tourne le Page_ Adrien is sweet. ‘I got ya some coffee,’ he says, just as Grantaire arrives. The mug is bright red. ‘It’s only Nespresso, but-‘

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire says, with unfeigned gratitude. His eyes are swimming after hours at the canvas.

‘You got paint,’ Adrien says, and laughs. He swipes his thumb along Grantaire’s chin. ‘New project?’

‘Just a commission.’ For some reason, the touch relaxes him.

While nobody would call him a prude- or even vaguely inexperienced in the bedroom, Grantaire still gets slightly nervous before the first time with a new partner. Already he can tell what Adrien will be like; long, lanky, a little naïve but wholly enthusiastic. The prospect makes his body hum in a low and contented wave.

Not like Enjolras kissing his cheek last night.

Grantaire banishes the thought and heads to the counter. Jehan hasn’t got the shift today- some family thing with his accountant boyfriend. A casual girl fills in for him- a highschooler, Vivienne? Veronique? Either way, she’s cheerful and wickedly pretty enough for the men who stroll in to become entranced.

Fantine knows how to pick them.

Grantaire and Adrien do all of the cutesy things that relationships require before they become actual _relationships._ The accidental touching act, the over-enthusiastic jokes, nudges, mock teasing. It feels, well… _good_. One night stands are an art within themselves, but it’s nice to let emotions take the forefront, and be comfortable in the knowledge that Adrien will be there in the morning.

‘What are you doing tonight?’ Adrien asks, near closing. Tourist season is coming up, and a few early birds peck around the store. Americans, mostly. Grantaire can tell.

‘Boxing with a friend,’ he says- which is truth. He wouldn’t go out with Adrien even if it were a lie. Grantaire’s already decided on their first date. He has it _planned_.

‘You box?’

‘ _Si,’_ Grantaire returns, and does a quick routine with his feet. _Left hook, left hook, jab, uppercut._ Adrien looks- well.  A little turned on. ‘I do matches, too.’ He grins bashfully. ‘Not too well, but I try.’

‘And you speak Spanish.’

Grantaire shrugs. ‘My _maman_ was Spanish. She taught me before she left.’

‘Left?’

He deals Adrien a firm glance. ‘Not a big deal. It’s her life.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Old enough.’ _Twelve._ It goes unsaid. Twelve; coming home from school and the door was locked, twelve; his father trying not to cry. Twelve. Packing his own lunch. Saying goodnight aloud and pretending it was her.

They fall silent. Adrien seems to read the look on his face correctly. What is it? Late May? His mother’s birthday was in April. He hadn’t remembered. Fantine, standing in the corner, watches the night creep in soundlessly. She looks so sad.

‘Hey,’ Grantaire says. ‘You free after work on Saturday?’

‘Um,’ Adrien says. ‘Yeah.’

‘Good. I’m educating you on the finer things the Musee d’Orsay has to offer.’

Adrien beams, then tries to downplay his enthusiasm. ‘Uh, yeah okay. Sure. I’ll- I’ll pencil it.’

‘Alright.’ It’s six. ‘You good to close up?’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’ Adrien asks, and despite his height, seems to be small.

Grantaire kisses him on the cheek. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You will.’

He leaves with a wave to Fantine, who doesn’t respond. The silence is uncharacteristic; Grantaire makes a note to keep an eye on her. She’s been so good to him that he almost loves her. And- well. If she’s miserable, it’s something he’s got experience on.

The metro is buzzing. He doesn’t get a seat until Le Peletier, but then has to get straight off at Cadet, anyway; pushing past a bunch of giggly schoolgirls. The train shudders and some idiot doesn’t press the button until the last minute, leaving them to flood the station like sardines.

_‘Putain_ ,’ Grantaire mutters sulkily, reflexively checking his bag to make sure nobody’s stolen his fucking wallet. The 9th isn’t _terrible_ for pickpocketing- not like Montmartre or the 1st\- but it’s still Paris, which means someone’s out to get you.

When he gets to the gym, Bahorel’s waiting. ‘Yo,’ he says. ‘Some asshole thought it’d be fun to catcall my sister today. I’m feeling the need to exorcise my demons.’ He follows Grantaire to the bathroom, despite already having gloves on.

‘Oh, please: feel free to use me as your punching bag,’ Grantaire returns sarcastically, dropping both his bags and his trousers. ‘It’s what I live for.’

‘Kinky.’

Boxing is good for Grantaire, which doesn’t actually mean that _he_ is good at _it_. Being just shy of 5’8 (and therefore solidly below average) means his reach is shorter, especially compared to Bahorel’s monster 6’3 frame. More than that, Grantaire’s lean but not slight, and he can’t move fast to save his life. Sure, he’s got the strength and the stamina, but his coordination resembles that of a drunk foal’s.

The third time Bahorel nails him in the head, the crowd ceases to hiss in sympathy. ‘Try some speed,’ a guy offers half-heartedly, but Grantaire’s ears are still ringing. He can feel a bruise forming.

 ‘Where’s your fucking mind at?’ Bahorel demands, wiping sweat off of his bald head with his gloves. ‘Your defence is shit. Like, shitter than normal.’

‘Your _maman’s_ defense is shit,’ Grantaire mutters, stumbling to his feet.

‘Hey, Arushi Bahorel could kick your chest in with one foot, believe me. You think girls don’t learn street fighting in Delhi?’

Grantaire has seen Bahorel’s mother, who stands all of five feet, and favors neon saris. He has no doubt she could destroy him. Bahorel’s father is a cautious man.

‘Maybe I’ve had enough for today,’ he admits. They exit the ring, sweat dripping, strange men patting them on the back. The gym is nameless, populated by everyone from Somali immigrants to Sorbonne rich boys.

‘Akanksha wanted to know if you’re coming to dinner soon,’ Bahorel says, as they change clothes. ‘She loves you, man. She actually offered to cook for you. Do you know what it takes to get that girl to abandon her skateboard and cook? My maa is at the end of her fucking wits trying to teach her how to make biryani, and there she is, begging me. _If you make Taire come to dinner, I’ll make kosha mansho!_ She’s fucking gone on you.’

‘Please,’ Grantaire scoffs. ‘She’s fifteen.’ He pauses. ‘Did you say kosha mansho?’

‘Told you.’

‘Fuck. Okay, I’ll come before the Amis meeting next Monday.’

Bahorel turns on him cheerfully. ‘Touch my sister and I’ll kill you.’

‘Love you too man.’

It’s not far from the 9th to Montmartre, and the spring night is pleasant and clear, so Grantaire decides to walk back to his place. His body sings from the exercise, despite the burgeoning bruise on his cheek. Paris goes about its Tuesday night business, with men in suits galloping from building to building. He likes the 9th, actually- even the Galeries Lafayette, testament to modern capitalism as it is. He’s pretty sure it’s the Palais Garnier that does it, hovering over the _arrondissement_ like a benevolent, rich old grandfather.

As he traipses along rue de Rochechouart, Grantaire stuffs his hands in his pockets and allows himself to think. As always, his mind traces a moonless path back to Enjolras.

When he was younger, his mother used to teach him how to cook. She was from Seville, and carried her heritage with her like an anchor. _Carrillada,_ tender on the mouth, soaked in wine reduction. _Serranito,_ with bread she made from scratch. He remembers the way her hands were so sure on the chopping board, flying, blurring. Her touch. _Mi amor_.

He wonders about Marseilles, about Enjolras hiding his accent for six straight years, cultivating those Parisian snaps and hisses. Why? In a sudden flash, Grantaire pictures Enjolras at eighteen- he never knew him that young- with wild hair and pointed elbows, too intense to make friends. His voice too sonorous and broad to be taken seriously.

The image hurts. Grantaire stares at the ground- _pardon_ , knocking into an old woman. The sun has set now, and the city coats itself in night. Behind him, somewhere, the Eiffel Tower puts on a terrible, tacky, stunning show, lit up from tip to toe. Tourists coo, and locals smoke cigarettes and complain about the same fucking things.

He gets lost three times trying to find home. He doesn’t particularly mind.

 

* * *

 

_I’ll be there at nine tomorrow. What’s your coffee order?_

* * *

 

Grantaire jolts awake on Thursday morning, roused by two sharp knocks. Enjolras. True to his word, it’s just gone nine, and Grantaire’s still in grey sweatpants and an old Ramones shirt. He’s never actually listened to the Ramones, but it’s a gift from an old Irish girlfriend. Brianna. He thinks. Grantaire stumbles out of bed, slamming his shin against an unpacked box, and hops the rest of the way to the door.

‘ _Salut_ ,’ he mumbles, conscious of his loose hair, his bad breath.

‘ _Bonjour_ ,’ says Enjolras, because he refuses to acknowledge informality. ‘You’re not dressed.’

He’s holding two coffee cups and a pastry bag, with a martyred gaze. Of course, he’s in Parisian spring perfection; pressed jeans, a navy button-down and that tan cardigan which is just on the perfect edge of loose. He frowns as soon as he sees Grantaire’s face. ‘You’ve got a bruise.’

He touches his cheek reflexively. ‘Bahorel. Boxing. Need I say more? Also, are those boat shoes?’

‘Take the damn coffee, Grantaire.’

The pastries turn out to be croissants from _Du Pain et des Idees_ , which Grantaire promptly inhales. It crumbles and melts in his mouth. ‘Mmf,’ he says, and licks the flakes from his fingers. ‘So fucking good.’

‘I know you don’t function without food.’

‘That is generally how bodies work, yes.’

‘I’m not bickering with you today,’ Enjolras says briskly. He sits down on the couch and pulls out his briefcase. A _briefcase_. God. There are sheafs of papers, some brightly colored. ‘This protest is important. The reform they passed in April is ridiculous. They can’t fine customers fifteen hundred euros and expect these sex workers not to be disadvantaged in some way-‘

‘Enjolras,’ Grantaire says gently. ‘You’re preaching to the choir.’

Like he hasn’t known sex workers. Like he didn’t, that one night when he was twenty, sink to his knees for a profit. There is no judging in Clichy-sous-Bois- or, at least, there is, but you’d be kicked in the head for it.

Enjolras looks momentarily chastened. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘I wanted to do this better.’

‘Better?’

Enjolras is silent, and then lets out a gust of a sigh, leaning backwards to stare at the ceiling. ‘We haven’t had the smoothest relationship, Grantaire.’

‘I was there, yeah.’

‘The way I acted in Pantheon-Assas was unforgivable.’

‘Forget it,’ Grantaire says, and stares at his canvas. Mme Leveque’s outline stares back. He’ll get started on the actual oil layer today. The basic blocks of shade, light-

‘I can’t just _forget_ it,’ Enjolras says irritably. He scrubs at his hair. ‘I felt awful, when you left to Spain. I’d bullied you out of your home- yes, a bully! Everyone I’ve ever fought against was a bully, and there I was, saying those- those _things_.’

‘They weren’t untrue,’ Grantaire says. It comes out very quiet. He sits next to Enjolras, far enough away so there’s no risk of touching. ‘You weren’t…tactful, but you were always honest.’

‘Honest.’ Enjolras laughs, and it’s hollow and cracked. ‘You were gone for months.’

‘That was more than a year ago. It’s fine now.’

‘ _Now_.’

Grantaire brushes away the croissant residue, uncomfortable at this rawness, this new emotion Enjolras displays so readily. He wishes fervently to reach over, to take Enjolras’ hand and bring it to his mouth. A show of devotion.

‘I forgive you,’ he says, eventually. It’s what he needs to hear, and apparently, what Grantaire needs to say.

Enjolras offers him a weak smile. ‘Thank you.’

Grantaire remembers one particular episode. He must have been- twenty, twenty-one. Enjolras was twenty-three, embarking on his Masters. A Monday night, in the Musain, listening to Enjolras preach to the Amis.

He can’t even remember the subject being debated; taxes, maybe, or social reform. But Enjolras was so beautiful up there, on fire, his hair wild, his voice so golden and strong. Grantaire couldn’t stand it, had finished a bottle of Pinot Noir already. The gap between them had seemed so impossibly large- angel to freak- that it soured his mouth.

‘You really think you’ll ever make a fucking difference?’ he’d asked, afterwards. Drunk, as usual. ‘You think you’ll even fucking remember this in twenty years?’ Maybe he’d even been curious as to the answer. Maybe he’d been looking for an intellectual debate about the idyll of youth, and how it faded, and eventually left.

What he got was Enjolras skewering him, on all those sore, fragile points he couldn’t defend. He made it fucking _funny_ , too, so that Combeferre was almost laughing, so that everything came off as a joke- harmless. Only it wasn’t; every jibe at his weight, or his drinking, or his fucking _clothes_. It had gone on forever, Enjolras’ insanely spiteful one-man comedy show, escalating eventually into this painful, fraught silence when everyone finally understood what Enjolras was doing. He’d understood too, then, that being a good leader did not necessarily make you a good person.

‘ _I’ll be alive in twenty years, at least.’_ That had been one of them. So cold. Said with this perfectly light sneer, as if to communicate Enjolras’ complete disdain, his lack of care. Like Grantaire could have dropped dead and Enjolras would have felt nothing. All that hatred. Right there, in front of the people- and person- he loved best.

Silently, slowly, he’d taken up his coat and exited. Blind with burgeoning tears, stumbling along in the night. Nobody had come after him.

After that he barely spoke, but he still came to meetings. He had stayed all of that year, right through winter, spring- until Enjolras graduated. He’d even gone to the party, and shook his hand. A week after that he was in Barcelona.

Now he is here, and Enjolras is at the Court of Appeals, and leaned over as if in physical pain on his couch 

‘Nobody remembers,’ Grantaire says faintly, and oh god, it is a lie.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras is surprisingly efficient- and creative- with the poster designs. The protest is in July, but he wants word of mouth to spread- for there to be a fucking statement right in front of the Palais du Justice.

‘In another life,’ Grantaire says smartly,’ you were fucking executed in front of Hotel de Ville.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Enjolras says, as dry as a desert, spreading out design ideas.

‘Lots of people watched. Your head went rolling.’

‘I’m sure it was vastly entertaining to the masses. Now, I want something striking.’

Grantaire thinks about it. ‘Red,’ he says eventually. ‘Gotta be red.’

They toss around ideas while the coffee goes cold. A mouth could work, maybe- white background, red lips, angry angry words emblazoned on it. Grantaire warms to the idea; feminine without being exploitative. Should appeal to Sorbonne’s radical feminist groups.

‘While we’re on it,’ Grantaire says. ‘Who were you inviting to the protest?’

‘The usual,’ Enjolras answers, distractedly. ‘Sorbonne and Pantheon-Assas groups, Osez le Feminisme, STRASS.’ He hesitates. ‘And, uh, Action Constante.’

‘ _Enjolras_.’

‘I know they’ve been violent in the past-‘

‘In the past? Just last month one of their members _shot_ someone-‘

‘But I’ve talked to Helene and she _promised_ it would be a nonviolent protest.’

‘Well,’ Grantaire says sourly. ‘If _Helene_ promised.’

‘Don’t be difficult,’ Enjolras snaps. ‘The more people that show up, the better. And frankly, if some policemen get battered-‘

‘Enjolras!’

‘-that’s their job! It sends a message to the people.’ Enjolras is on fire again. ‘That together, we can defeat anything. Even corrupt, bigoted politicians. The system doesn’t have to win!’

‘If you quote the April Theses, Enjolras, I swear to god.’

‘I’m not a communist.’

‘I seem to remember you railing against the Patheon-Assas cuts with extracts from The Sublime Object of Ideology.’

Enjolras fails to defend himself, because it is true. ‘Hegelian-Marxism has its place,’ he hedges.

‘You can’t fucking use Zizek, Enjolras. You were preaching to the first years.’

‘Shut up,’ Enjolras mutters, but his mouth is twitching, and Grantaire abruptly discovers that he’s having fun. Literal, enjoyable fun.

‘My point,’ he says, reluctant to ruin the unusually cheery mood, ‘is that Action Constante is unpredictable. And unreliable. And the last thing I want to see is Les Amis disbanded because you ended up in jail.’

Enjolras’ mouth tightens, and Grantaire knows he’s lost. ‘Thank you for the concern,’ he says stiffly. ‘But I can handle it.’

The world comes crashing down upon them again. A beep goes off from Enjolras’ phone; he glances at it and swears. Grantaire grimaces; he knows that look. Six years spent studying Enjolras, and anyone would know that look. Pure and utter exhaustion.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ Enjolras sighs, and pushes the papers towards Grantaire before standing up. He’s wearing a new watch; silver and heavy. ‘I’ve got to get to work.’

Grantaire frowns, stares at Enjolras’ pale face. His eyes are just slightly red, as if he’s been rubbing them. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. I’d like you to prototype the posters over the weekend.’ Just like that, all business again. Enjolras straightens himself- not that anything was ever out of place- and nods sharply. ‘You can show me on Monday.’

Grantaire stands up too, wants to reach for him but doesn’t know how. ‘Enjolras-‘

‘It’s good of you to do this.’ He’s looking away, voice stiff like his hands. ‘Take care of that bruise.’

Grantaire opens his mouth but stutters on air as Enjolras kisses his cheek brusquely. Neither of them have shaved properly; the scrape feels good.

‘ _A plus_.’ So he does know slang.

_‘Enjolras-‘_

It’s no use. With a blur of tan and navy (those ridiculous shoes) Enjolras is gone. The door is shut quietly, which is at least a positive change from the days of yore. They used to slam like thunderclaps.

Grantaire sighs, resigning himself to Enjolras’ whiplash moods. He’s never like this with anyone else- sometimes approaching almost friendly warmth, the next reverting to pure ice. Maybe he’s trying to put Grantaire off- maybe this is all his roundabout way of saying _I know you dream of me, but I’m not outright harsh enough to tell you to fuck off._

Maybe this isn’t about Grantaire at all.

The rest of the day he paints the first layer of Mme Leveque’s portrait, relishing in the new, ultra-pigmented oils he blew his money on. It’s slow going but satisfying in a way that sketching isn’t. Perhaps he would have made a name for himself back in the Renaissance. He could have been a poor man’s Bellini.

Still, his life lingers. Painting is almost always an escape, a space of peace and emptiness. Today, however, everything seems to swirl; Enjolras, Adrien, the new exercises he has to think up for _Danse Soleil_. It’s a buzz of impatience rather than outright crushing anxiety, so he lets himself be and doesn’t attempt meditation or anything. He does attend semi-regular yoga classes, when he’s either too sore from boxing or too tense for working.

That night he dreams of Barcelona. The Sagrada Familia piercing the endless, aching blue sky. Sangria in a dirty glass, a beautiful girl’s long lean legs wrapped around him. The music, winding through his veins, that ripe drumbeat. Sex. Enjolras. The phone calls he never answered 

He wakes up hard and grieving, although for what, he can’t explain.

 

* * *

 

 

_come to Shabbat_

_y?_

_plllllsss ur close to me now_

_who else?_

_Ferre, marius, cosette_

_no enjolras?_

_says hes busy….maybe getting busy???? ;)_

_courf_

_ok ok hes doing lawyer stuff_

_ok_

_so ur coming??? challah for allll_

_fine_

_LOVE U XXXXX_

* * *

 

Grantaire’s Friday morning shift at _Tournes les Pages_ is scheduled without Adrien. When he asks Fantine about it, she shrugs.

‘Some exam, I don’t know,’ she says, and chews her nails. She’s a fearsome but diminutive woman, continuing the trend in Grantaire’s life of being railroaded by people under 5’4. ‘I trust you can work without him? You’re on front counter, by the way.’

Front counter is by virtue near to Jehan, so he doesn’t mind too much. Besides, customer service is amusing enough when you’re not forced into it everyday. He especially enjoys the look of panic on Americans’ faces when they realise he doesn’t speak English.

‘They should go to Shakespeare and Company’s if they want the tourist experience,’ Jehan mutters darkly, after one particularly loud customer. The evening splays against the horizon. It’s closing time. ‘I’m tired of Anthony Doerr.’

‘Doerr _sells_ ,’ Grantaire says snidely. ‘Seidel doesn’t.’

‘It’s not my fault if the masses lack taste.’ Jehan is uncharacteristically mean with that one, tapping his silver nails viciously against the coffee machine.

‘You’re in a bad mood.’

Jehan sighs, and looks at Grantaire like he’s missing the last piece of a puzzle. His naturally dark hair is dyed a raucous mix of pink and blue, with tiny glittery stars stuck at the corner of his eyes. As always, he looks as if David Bowie wandered into Rupaul’s hotel room, and had very drunk sex. ‘I had a fight with Will.’

‘Ah,’ Grantaire says. ‘A fight.’ Something, at least, he has experience with.

‘He wants to go back to Berlin.’

‘And you don’t want to go with him?’

Jehan snorts, a little condescendingly, and appears to scrutinise the ceiling. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’ By which he means, _you wouldn’t get it, because you’ve never been in a functional relationship_. A point which should be conceded.

Grantaire tries to smile, but is struck by the thought of a Paris with no Jehan in it. The city might as well be barren. ‘Do you know German?’

‘A little. Not as well as you.’

‘ _Schatz_ ,’ Grantaire teases. ‘You’d pick it up.’

Jehan remains silent for a little while. ‘Probably.’

Trying to forget the idea of Jehan leaving him forever (fuck you Wilhelm, and your impeccably tailored herringbone suits), Grantaire mechanically locks up the cash register. ‘You going to Shabbat tonight?’

‘I thought I’d patch things up with Will.’

‘Oh,’ Grantaire says, injecting just the right amount of sleaze. ‘I see.’

Jehan blushes. ‘Shut up.’

‘Be safe- _ow_.’

For a small and glittery man, Jehan is surprisingly deft. And painful. ‘You’re so crude,’ he says, irritated but amused. It’s a strange combination that Grantaire is particularly good at invoking.

‘I love you,’ Grantaire says, holding his side. It’s meant to be playful but comes off touched with melancholy. ‘You know that.’

‘Berlin isn’t so far away,’ Jehan says, suddenly contrite. ‘If- if I did end up going.’

‘City of poets,’ Grantaire says sadly. ‘They’d be lucky to have you.’

By the time Grantaire hops on the metro, the sun is nearly setting. Tulieries station is crowded, and by the time he switches lines and makes it to Picpus, he is most definitely Late. He has to run past the Cimetiere de Picpus (why do so many of his friends live next to cemeteries?) and has a violent encounter with one of the little poles lining the streets. Limping and wheezing, he finally makes a left onto rue Mousset.

Courf lives in the 12th, near enough to Place de la Nation that he says he feels patriotic every time he takes a shit. The apartment is crammed on top of a florist and is barely big enough to breathe. Somehow, every month or so, Courf convinces him to come to Shabbat dinner. Somehow, they fit. It’s a trick of magical proportions.

The dinners began before Grantaire arrived in Paris, but ever since the Amis stumbled into the Musain six years ago, Grantaire’s been integral. Usually it’s him, Combeferre, Marius and Cosette, although sometimes Enjolras will come. It’s generally the one occasion where Grantaire can hold his tongue. They haven’t fought on Shabbat yet, although heaven knows there’s time.

‘ _Gut Shabbos,’_ Grantaire says, breathlessly, when Courf answers the door. He’s wearing his kippah, although it’s decorated rather ostentatiously. There’s a feather stuck cheerily under it, and little diamantes on the sides.

‘ _Gut Shabbos,_ ’ Courf says, and bats his eyelids. ‘It’s eighteen minutes before sunset somewhere, right? Come in. I got real _challah_ this time. Not leftover baguettes like last week.’

‘I am glad I didn’t make it to last week,’ Grantaire says, and shuffles his way into Courf’s flat. It’s crowded with lesson plans and children’s books and kitschy homemade decorations. The occasional sex toy pops up too.

Combeferre, Marius and Cosette are already seated at Courf’s table, looking a little put upon. Well, Marius is. Combeferre looks as elegantly polite as ever, although there is a softness to his mouth as Courf ushers Grantaire inside. Cosette beams at him, and leans over the challah and the unlit candles to kiss his cheeks.

‘You should be glad,’ she says sweetly. ‘Halfway through Kiddush and he remembered the baguettes had ham in them.’

‘Cosette,’ Courf says grandly. ‘We all make mistakes. Some of them are more unfortunate than others.’ He settles down in his chair. ‘Some of them even have names. Like Julien. Or Roberto.’

‘I can’t believe you had a Brazilian phase,’ Marius says in wonder. ‘Not even Latino, but specifically Brazilian.’

‘Aye Macarena,’ Courf says, serene. Combeferre snorts loudly. ‘Cosette? If you would do the honors?’

Bless Cosette’s angelic heart. She’s lit the candles ever since Courfeyrac begged her to come to Shabbat, back when she and Marius had just met. When questioned on this, Courf will generally shrug, and protest that since nobody knows _for sure_ that she isn’t Jewish, everything is kosher. Pun intended.

Cosette strikes the match, and lights the two candles. Grantaire takes a breath and shuts his eyes, letting the fire leave its imprint on his vision. Courfeyrac’s strong, fine voice twists around the room, like ribbon.

‘ _Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha_ _‑_ _olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Shabba.’_

When Grantaire opens his eyes, the world is at rights. Courf is smiling beatifically. ‘I only have red solo cups for the wine,’ he says. ‘But in my eyes, they truly are beautiful.’

Grantaire sticks with grape juice this evening, because he doesn’t particularly feel like alcohol- something about the air, or the fact that he dreamed so intensely of Enjolras last night, makes him wary of falling into old habits. Courf always keeps juice along with the wine, anyway, so it’s not a big deal.

They all chant the Kiddush, because after five years, it just seems to have stuck in everyone’s head. _Baruch, atah, Adonai_ …It’s nice, to hear their collective voices flood the place. To be one amongst many. Grantaire is not religious- his mother was Catholic, his father an atheist- but he is…appreciative. He’s attended temple with Courf, celebrated Diwali with Bahorel, sang hymns with Eponine. It’s not God that he is seeking, but peace. Community.

By the time Courf recites _motzi_ over his real life, legitimate _challah_ , Grantaire is relaxed, but starving. The bread is good and thick, and fills his mouth. Crumbs fall out when he chews.

‘Okay,’ Courf says, abandoning his Serious Jew persona. ‘My mother is happy now. And-‘ he reaches for a couple of plastic bags stowed at his feet- ‘I have the finest sushi and pasta that the 12th has to offer.’

The table cheers. Grantaire, seated next to Combeferre, snatches up a box of carbonara. ‘S’good,’ he mutters, shoving it into his mouth with a dented, bright pink fork.

‘Well, Chef Mario does his best.’

‘Is that his real name?’ Marius asks, delicately unwrapping his sushi.

‘Fuck if I know.’ 

‘That’s kind of racist,’ Courf says cheerfully, and shoves an entire sushi piece into his mouth. When he chews, a piece of salmon falls out and onto the table. It’s no wonder Courf loves kids; he _is_ one.

 Combeferre just looks at him, and then at the ceiling, as if he is pleading with a higher power to intervene. ‘I’m not even touching that one,’ he says. ‘If Enjolras were here-‘

‘He’s not though,’ Marius says, and gives a delicate shudder. ‘He’s been so stressed lately.’

‘Mm,’ Cosette tunes in. ‘His boss is working him hard.’

‘Neimar is an ass,’ Courf says, with uncharacteristic fierceness. ‘Always having him up till midnight, running over the city. _Bah_.’

Grantaire just sits in silence, staring at the pasta that no longer seems so appetising. It’s not that he hadn’t known Enjolras was having a hard time at the Court of Appeals, it’s just…well. The man would rather die than let on that he was struggling, and his immaculate dress, his perfect hair…all but the closest of friends would swear Enjolras was fine. Sprightly even.

The rest of the evening is sweet. They play charades after dinner, with Grantaire having to act out Tatou’s sickly-sappy Amelie, to much booing. It’s a movie he adores in quiet, hideous shame. His friends lounge around Courf’s tiny, bright apartment, talking and drinking and full of light. Combeferre complains about a know it all classmate, Courf tells them about the son of a politician who still says _beaucoup_ like _beau cul._

Still, he feels as if there is something missing. Courf and Combeferre sit so close, after all, shoulders brushing, looks passing between them like teenagers pass love notes. And Marius and Cosette have always been so poisonously perfect, holding hands, staring as if the world had been stripped away. One look, that’s all it was; just a moment buried deep in summer, 2013, outside D’Orsay. Cosette in a white linen shift dress, Marius in loafers and his hair wild. Love. Eponine sobbed when she heard, when Marius brought Cosette along to Amis, and everyone saw how fucking perfect she was. Easier to hate Cosette, Eponine thought, but they became friends, and she couldn’t. The pain lasted a very long time.

So it goes.

Courf stops him as he’s about to leave. ‘Be kind to Enjolras,’ he says, a little drunk. ‘I know he’s difficult but it’s…a bad time for him right now.’

‘I know,’ Grantaire says, looking down, almost sad. ‘I just-‘

‘No,’ Courf says. ‘Like really fucking bad. His dad’s dying.’

‘Oh god.’ Grantaire feels as if the ground is shaking. ‘I’m-‘ he can’t find the words. He knows Enjolras hates his family, almost as much as Grantaire hates his, but. Well. It’s _family_. ‘Shit. He never said.’

Courf snorts and sways. ‘As if he would. Anyway. I’m just saying. Try cut him a break or something.’

The metro home is okay; a drunk guy pees _right_ in front of him at Anvers, but that’s par for the course. All Grantaire can think about is Enjolras. Does he cry? Can he? Grantaire’s never seen it. For all he knows Enjolras lacks the proper ducts. Is he grieving? Relieved? Why does nothing ever show through?

He thinks of Enjolras in his boat shoes, his pressed jeans. He thinks of his blond hair and shining eyes, his glacial cheekbones. It is dangerous to let people know you. _I appreciate you_. Enjolras leaning on him, drunk and nearly sorry. When Grantaire tries to find the stars, but they’re covered by pollution. There’s nothing but his city glittering like broken glass, calling out to the night. _You can only be happy in two places; home and Paris_. He supposes they’re one and the same, now.

It’s fine. Everything is always fine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There are a lot of little quiet references in there- hopefully all my French is correct, but I'm not native, so feel free to correct. 
> 
> All the institutions mentioned, with the exception of Amis and the Musain, are real. All the stations, buildings, suburbs and streets are real, too. No, 500 euros per month for a flat in Montmartre is not realistic (unfortunately), but I'll wait a little longer to explain that one.
> 
> :)


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